Gratitude for the Creative Life

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I’ve been thinking lately about how extraordinary it is that so many of us continue to make art at all.

Life does not exactly clear a path for creativity. Most artists I know are balancing family, caregiving, work, financial worries, aging parents, endless errands, world events, uncertainty, exhaustion — all the ordinary and extraordinary weights of being human. And yet somehow, in the middle of all that, we still feel the pull to make things.

  • We still stop to notice light falling across a table.
  • We still save interesting scraps of paper.
  • We still arrange objects on a shelf without quite knowing why.
  • We still feel that quiet inner nudge that says, “Look at this. Pay attention. This matters.”

Lately, that has begun to feel less like ambition and more like gratitude.

Not gratitude in the greeting-card sense, but something deeper than that. It’s more like a recognition that the creative impulse itself is a kind of companionship we carry through life. It stays with us during difficult seasons. It waits for us when we are distracted or discouraged. And sometimes it rescues us by reminding us that beauty and meaning still exist, even in small forms.

I suspect many artists understand this feeling without needing to explain it to one another.

Even when I’m not actively working in the studio, I realize I’m still moving through the world with an artist’s eye. I’m noticing patterns in shadows, strange color combinations in peeling paint, bits of conversation, fragments of memory, little visual coincidences that feel oddly significant. The world continues to offer things up, and some part of me continues to gather them.

Maybe that’s one of the real gifts of a creative life — not just the art we make, but the way art teaches us to remain awake to the world and to one another.

And honestly, these days, that feels like something worth being deeply grateful for.

I’ve also been wondering if gratitude needs expression — not in a grand public way, but in small personal rituals. Perhaps gratitude for a creative life can take the form of making something that doesn’t need to be sold, exhibited, or even explained. A tiny offering. A stitched fragment. A small clay token. A paper bundle holding kitty fur tied with thread. Something made simply to acknowledge the mysterious fact that our creative spirit is still here with us.

Not a masterpiece. Not content. Not productivity.

Just a silent, heartfelt gesture of thanks.

I love the thought that artists throughout history may have done this in one way or another — making small meaningful objects not for an audience, but for themselves. Little reminders of wonder. Proof of attention. Tokens of survival and delight.

Maybe gratitude itself can become part of the creative practice: not only making art about life, but making something in thanks for being able to see life through the eyes of an artist at all.

Grateful for you –

♥Lyn

What Kind of Vessel Would You Be?

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Lately, I’ve been thinking about vessels not as objects that speak, but as objects that listen.

That idea is the basis of my upcoming workshop, The Listening Vessel, which will be released later this month as part of the Objects of Devotion series. I’m right in the middle of filming it. And as usual, there are lots of surprises and revelations.

So with all that on my mind, I asked our recent Enso Circle Continuing Residents a question that seemed simple at first:

If you were a vessel, what kind of vessel would you be?

The answers were thoughtful, surprising, and deeply personal. Here, for example, is one from Ann in California:

  • My vessel is a curragh, filled with many burdens, old and new, and lately at risk of sinking entirely.  I have slowly begun to toss things  overboard but then started to realize that some are not burdens at all but, rather, helpers I had been missing. Discernment is key but there is also a sense of urgency. So I turn with hope to the words of John O’Donohue from his longer blessing, Beannacht:
  • “When the canvas fraysin the currach of thoughtand a stain of oceanblackens beneath you,may there come across the watersa path of yellow moonlightto bring you safely home.”

This one is from Marian in New Zealand – it is incredibly metaphoric, complex and touching:

  • I would be my old basketball, given to me as a birthday gift when I was about ten or eleven I think! As new it was shiny brown leather, with a bladder inside that you blew up and then laced up the top with a leather lace. I can still smell the newness of the basketball when I reimagine it now. I polished it with a beeswax polish and carried it with pride, spending many many hours throwing it against our old wooden house and pretending to be the top team player in a tournament. I didn’t care about joining into games at school with this ball as I played cricket and tennis and hockey and some basketball but my games alone with my ball and the fact my mothers sewing room was on the other side of that wall and only once do I remember her coming and saying would I mind stopping for just a little while as she had a headache and had to finish a tricky bit of sewing. Remembering that now I can’t imagine the thump thump thump that she endured countless times without ever complaining.I feel overwhelmed by memories of absolute love and care and pride and acceptance within my family and nothing nor no one else mattered to me.
    I guess I pour out stories of a loving cash strapped family, one which cared unconditionally for us and were ever present, and we had a lot of humor and fun and gentle moments together and I always felt it all centered around my fathers absolute love of bees and nature and my mothers love of animals and nurturing of her children even though they lost their first born and struggled to accept the fact in those days that you were not allowed to ever mention that loss again but go home and have more children! They did and ended up with six out of eight children loosing one more later on. . . . The ball now is deflated old but still holding many memories of flying and soaring, bouncing and being carried, still bringing joy seventy plus years later, a sense of achievement, self awareness, at one with the player. A fantasy life as a bird soaring in my own thoughts, content able to roost if it rains in the treetops of nature, coming out to play in the Enso circle and finding the same kind of love and happiness here.

Here’s another from Tracy in Vermont:

  • If I were a vessel, I would be a drop of water.  I’d have surface tension to keep things together, yet also infinite elasticity to move where I needed to be, or where I wanted to go. I would nurture others with my life-giving element, yet contain what I need for my own survival. I could join vast expanses of water without losing myself.

Some residents imagined themselves as weathered bowls repaired with care. Others described small boats meant for passage crossings.What moved me most was how naturally everyone understood the metaphor.

A vessel is never just a container. It is something that holds. Something that protects. Something that carries. Something shaped by pressure, heat, use, time, and intention.

We live in a time of tremendous noise, acceleration, uncertainty, and overflow. So many of us are carrying too much information, too many worries, too many unfinished thoughts. In moments like these, the idea of a vessel becomes more than symbolic—it becomes comforting. We long for places of containment. Spaces that allow reflection instead of reaction. Objects that suggest care, listening, shelter, and presence.

For artists, vessels have always carried layered meaning. Ancient jars held grain, water, oil, ashes, offerings, medicines, and sacred texts. Reliquaries held memory and devotion. Small handmade containers protected precious things that could not simply be left exposed to the world

By sharing some of the Enso Residents’ beautiful responses in this post, I invite you to consider the question for yourself:

If you were a vessel, what kind would you be?

A bowl?
A reliquary?
A canoe?
A teacup?
A cracked earthen jar repaired with gold?
A basket woven from many strands?
A tiny pocket vessel for carrying one sacred thing?

The answer may reveal more than you expect!

Stay tuned for The Listening Vessel Workshop – opening next week!

Does Everything Feels Too Precious to Use?

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The Keeper of Fragments by Chaska Peacock. She wrote, “Oh, and I wanted to tell you about the stars.  15 or so years ago I met with a shaman while in Peru. He named me “Chaska” which means “star” in the Quetchan language.which is still spoken in Peru by the elders.  I felt intimidated, but gradually rose to the name.”

Conversations about The Keeper of Fragments, the first workshop in the Objects of Devotion series, continue to intrigue and inspire me. Here’s a wonderful one:

“I love how you just use your papers, etc. without feeling it is too precious to use and possibly hide or be in a layer that doesn’t necessarily show it fully. I have the worst time doing this. I seem to see every piece of paper or ephemera as needing it to be seen, so I hesitate to use it for fear of it getting lost. Any tips for how to overcome this?”

This question got my complete attention—not because I don’t understand it, but because I understand it completely. What we feel is not hesitation.
It’s care.

We are recognizing the beauty and value in the materials themselves. And that’s a wonderful place to begin.

But here’s the turning point: When everything feels precious, nothing can move.

If every scrap of paper must remain whole, visible, and intact, it can’t enter into transformation. It can’t become part of something larger. It stays fixed—safe, yes—but also silent.

Over time, I’ve come to think of my materials differently—not as objects to preserve…
but as participants in a conversation.

  • Their purpose isn’t to be fully seen.
    Their purpose is to contribute.

A fragment of text tucked under wax may never be read—but it shifts the tone of the surface. A torn edge that disappears into a layer still affects the rhythm of the composition. Even hidden elements carry presence.

If this feels difficult—and it often does—here are a few ways to begin:

  • Start with papers you like, but don’t love.
    Give yourself a place to practice without the pressure of loss.
  • Use fragments instead of whole pieces.
    You’re not sacrificing the material—you’re allowing it to change form.
  • Take a photograph before you use something meaningful.
    This small act can release the fear of losing it. (I do this all the time)
  • And perhaps most importantly, shift your thinking from preservation to movement.

Materials are not meant to live forever in a drawer. (Say that again.)
They are meant to pass through your hands, into your work, into meaning.

There’s also something deeper happening here. When we hesitate to cover something, we’re often saying: This deserves to be seen.

But what if being transformed is another way of being honored? What if a piece of paper becomes more itself—not less—when it joins something larger?

In my own work, especially in these Objects of Devotion, I’ve come to trust that nothing is truly hidden. Every layer, visible or not, becomes part of the whole. The history remains, even when it’s not immediately apparent.

So here’s a small invitation:

Choose one piece that feels “too precious.”
Tear a fragment from it.
Let it enter the work.

And then notice—not just what happens on the surface, but what shifts inside you.

Because in the end, this isn’t just about paper. It’s about trusting that what we love can change…and still belong.

In something like a spirit doll, or a Keeper of Fragments, that material doesn’t disappear—it becomes part of the story the piece holds, whether anyone else can see it or not.

Thanks for reading, and for questioning!

Lyn

“Hidden layers in a work of art are not meant to be seen all at once—they are meant to be felt over time. What disappears beneath the surface doesn’t vanish; it deepens the story, holding the memory of every choice the artist was brave enough to cover.” ~~ LB

When the Work Feels True

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Objects of Devotion and the Joy of Making

Yesterday, I received a note from a student in The Keeper of Fragments workshop. She wrote not to complete an assignment, but because something had shifted for her—and she wanted to share it.

She said this:

“Instead of asking is this good, ask is this true?
This really spoke to me… it stopped me in my tracks.”

That moment is at the heart of what I’ve been exploring with Objects of Devotion.

We are so often trained to measure our work by its “goodness.”Is it skillful enough? Finished enough? Worthy enough? But what happens when we ask a different question?

Is it true?True to our experience, true to what we noticed, true to the pull that made us pick up that fragment in the first place.

Vera went on to say that she returned to a piece she had abandoned months ago—caught in the familiar loop of “Is this good enough?”

This time, something had changed. She finished it not with a sense of technical triumph, but with something deeper:

“Not so much the skill in execution but what it meant to me and how I expressed that.”

That is the moment when an object becomes more than an object.

It becomes a devotional act. Thank you, Vera, for this affirmation!

Devotion Through Making

When I began this series on objects of devotion, I wasn’t thinking about perfection or product. I was thinking about the human impulse to make something with care.

  • To gather fragments.
    To shape a face.
    To wrap, layer, and assemble pieces of meaning.

We use our hands not just to construct, but to acknowledge something:

  • That we are here.
    That we notice.
    That we care.

In that sense, these works are not simply items for a shelf or a shop.

They are tangible manifestations of joy, of attention, of gratitude for being creative, meaning-making humans!

When the Pupil Is Ready

Vera ended her note with a line that made me smile:

“The pupil was ready and the teacher showed up!”

But I think what really happened is something even more profound.

  • The work showed up.
    The truth showed up.
    And she was ready to meet it.

A Thought on On “Unfinished” Work

I’ve come to trust unfinished pieces. They hold a presence that completed work can sometimes lose. We’re quick to decide: it’s not working.
So we fix it, push it, resolve it—or set it aside with disappointment.

But what if “unfinished” isn’t a problem? What if it’s a form of listening?

These pieces—like my three “unfinished” ones shown below—still carry something intact for me. Not polished, not resolved, but true. The gesture is there. The intention is there. The feeling that brought them into being hasn’t been overworked or explained away.

They are already objects of devotion.

Not because they are complete, but because they were made with attention and care—because I followed something meaningful.

Sometimes the most respectful choice is not to finish them.

Keep them nearby.
Let them be.
Let time enter the process.

They may call you back. They may remain as they are. Either way, they are not failures. They are evidence that you showed up, paid attention, and made something true in that moment. And that is enough.

If you’re working on something right now—something unfinished, uncertain, maybe even abandoned—I’ll pass along the same invitation:

Instead of asking is this good,
ask is this true?

Then see what happens when you trust the answer.

___________________________

If you’d like to explore this idea more deeply, The Keeper of Fragments is the first workshop in my Objects of Devotion series. It’s self-paced, and you can begin wherever you are.

And if you do, I’d love to hear what you discover. ~~ Lyn

The Keeper of Fragments

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The First OBJECTS OF DEVOTION Workshop Is Now Available

I’m so pleased to share that the first workshop in my new online series, Objects of Devotion, is now available on my Teachable studio classroom site. 

It’s called The Keeper of Fragments—and in many ways, it feels like a beginning that has been silently forming for years. Here is the link.

If you’ve followed my work over time, you may recognize the thread. The spirit figures, the small altars, the reliquaries, the layered collages—each one, in its own way, has been an object of devotion. Not in a strictly religious sense, but in a deeply human one: a devotion to memory, to meaning, and to the act of making itself.

This workshop is an invitation to explore that idea in your own way.

What Is The Keeper of Fragments?

At its heart, this workshop is about starting simply.

We begin with humble materials—leftover papers, saved scraps, images you couldn’t throw away—and through layering, wrapping, and assembling, something begins to emerge.

We learn to create small faces in clay that carry a sense of shared humanity.

A figure. A presence. A collage archive of where you’ve been.

The Keeper becomes a kind of companion—part spirit figure, part story, part guardian of the fragments that have stayed with you.

How the Workshop Works

This is a self-paced online workshop, designed so you can move through it in your own time, at your own rhythm.

  • All videos are fully downloadable
  • You can keep them forever as part of your studio practice
  • The workshop is $27, and all future Objects of Devotion workshops will be offered at this same accessible price

My hope is that this becomes something you return to—not just a class, but a resource.

A Personal Note

One of the most meaningful parts of developing this series has been hearing from so many of you on the “interest” list.

I’ve been reading your descriptions of your own work, and I’m genuinely inspired by what you’re bringing to this idea. There is such depth, curiosity, and honesty in your responses—it tells me that this series is finding the right people.

If you choose to join The Keeper of Fragments, I would truly value your feedback. Your thoughts will help shape the workshops to come and guide this series as it grows over the coming year.

What’s Next

The second workshop in the series, The Listening Vessel, will be released in late May.

And yes—there will definitely be workshops exploring Altars and Books, along with other forms that continue this idea of devotion through making. 

An Invitation

You don’t need special materials.
You don’t need a perfect plan.You just need a few fragments—and the willingness to begin. If this speaks to you, I would love to have you join me.

The Keeper of Fragments is now available in my Teachable studio.

Thank you for being here, and for the work you are already doing. Making is how we practice devotion. 

Lyn

 

Objects of Devotion

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. . . a new series of monthly workshops inspired by Encantos and the quiet, meaningful objects that shape a creative life

After writing about stepping back from Painting with Fire, I found myself reflecting on the arc of my own work—what has remained constant over the years, even as materials and methods have shifted.

But it was during my recent exhibition, Encantos, that something became especially clear to me.

As I worked on that body of clay, collage, and assemblage pieces—objects that felt both ancient and immediate—I began to recognize a deeper thread running through everything I make. There was a sense of connection to the past, to shared human symbols, to small, sacred objects that carry meaning across time and culture.

In that moment, I understood something I hadn’t fully named before.

Much of what I’ve created as a collagist and assemblage artist are, in essence, objects of devotion.

Not in a strictly religious sense, but in a deeply human one—a devotion to process, to memory, to meaning, and to the quiet relationship between the artist and the work.

That realization has led me to a new series of upcoming workshops.

I am designing a collection of twelve self-paced, three-hour workshops to be released approximately once a month on my Teachable site. The series is called, simply, OBJECTS OF DEVOTION.

We begin with: The Keeper of Fragments: A Devotional Archive Figure

These wall-mounted studio guardians combine elements of spirit dolls and boxes, layered collage, clay sculpture, and assemblage—brought together in a simplified, accessible way.

It is designed to help you focus on what you are truly devoted to in your art practice: your colors, your words, your meaningful fragments—the pieces that mark your journey.

This is a figure that not only watches over your space, but holds what you cannot throw away.

I’ve had a wonderful time creating the prototype and filming its emergence. It’s almost ready for prime time. It takes a little from the spirit dolls, the boxes, the Wanderers, the Neo-Santos, and adds the meaningful fragments from your personal creative practice.

The next workshop in the series will be: The Listening Vessel: Holding What Emerges in Stillness

Available in late May, this workshop invites you to create a small hand-formed vessel using plaster, paper, and natural materials—an object shaped as much by listening as by making.

Through simple, intuitive processes, you’ll build a form that gathers texture, memory, and meaning, allowing the materials to guide you as much as your hands do.

This vessel becomes a place of pause—a way of holding what is subtle, unspoken, and still emerging.

As with all Objects of Devotion, the focus is on simplicity, presence, and personal meaning. Each piece will be uniquely yours—a quiet companion in your creative space.

Other upcoming workshops will reflect my devotion to shrines and altars, talismans, Santos, pods and vessels, and narrative Ex-Votos.  I look forward to announcing the entire series.

Ultimately, this series called Objects of Devotion is about recognizing and building what resonates most deeply with your unique self—your own devotion to art-making which calls you back, again and again, to your creative practice.

Each workshop is both process-based and object-centered. We will create something tangible—something we can hold, share, revisit, and reinterpret over time.

These objects become metaphors of meaning, reflecting both your past and your present.

The workshops emphasize:

  • Simple forms explored through mixed-media techniques
  • Materials that are accessible and chosen with respect for the natural world
  • Processes that can be adapted and expanded into your own artistic language

Each workshop is affordably priced at $27 and is downloadable for you to keep.

You don’t need to commit to the entire series—simply choose the ones that resonate with you.

The first workshop, The Keeper of Fragments: A Devotional Archive Figure, will be available next week.

If you would like to be on the list to be the first to know about new workshops, just click here. 

I’m so looking forward to sharing this with you!!!

Three Minutes of Courage

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The other afternoon, I stood in Gallery Prudencia surrounded by artwork by other artists I deeply admire. What a delight to be in this show with them!

The show is called Piecework, a fitting title for a collection of collages, each one built from fragments, intuition, and time. The artists in the room? Extraordinary. The kind of artists (and friends) who make you pause… and then quietly wonder if you belong there at all.

And then came the artist talks.

EEK! Three minutes each. Three minutes to talk about something that may have taken weeks—or years—to understand.

The Quiet Panic Behind the “Podium”

It’s a peculiar challenge, talking about your own work.

There’s the familiar whisper:
I’m not as good as these other artists.

There’s the pressure of time:
How do I compress something layered and evolving into a few coherent sentences?

And then there’s the subtle, very human desire to get it “right”—
to honor the work, to respect the audience, to make the gallery owner happy.

All of that, in three minutes.

The Translation Problem

As artists, we spend hours—days—sometimes years—thinking through a piece. We make decisions that aren’t always verbal. We follow instincts we can’t quite explain.
We respond to materials, to memory, to moments of recognition. And then suddenly, we’re asked to translate all of that into language. Condensed. Clear. Meaningful. It can feel like trying to describe a dream before it disappears.

And Still… We Do It

When it was my turn, I spoke about my own collages.

Not perfectly. Not completely. Not in a way that captured everything I might have said if I had all the time in the world.

But I said something true. And when I finished, I felt… okay.

Not triumphant. Not eloquent. Just—steady. Present. Honest.

Here’s an Instagram link to my brief talk.

What Helped Me (and Might Help You, Too)

Standing there, I realized something important: Talking about our work isn’t a performance—it’s a practice.

Here are a few gentle things that helped me find my footing:

  • Start with what you’re exploring—not what it means.
    You don’t have to explain everything. A simple beginning like “I’m exploring…” or “This work comes out of…” keeps things open and alive.
  • Let your materials do some of the talking.
    When words feel hard, talk about what’s tangible. Materials are a bridge—they give people something to hold onto.
  • Share one small moment from the process.
    You don’t need the whole story. Just one moment of discovery—“At some point, I realized…”—can open the door.
  • You don’t have to be the authority on your own work.
    It’s okay to say, “I’m still figuring this out.” That kind of honesty invites connection rather than shutting it down.
  • Think of it as an invitation, not an explanation.
    You’re not translating your work—you’re opening a door. The work will continue the conversation long after you stop speaking.

Maybe That’s Enough

Maybe talking about our work isn’t about getting it exactly right. Maybe it’s about offering a doorway instead of a full explanation. Maybe it’s about trusting that the work itself is still doing most of the talking. And maybe—just maybe—it’s about standing in that moment, among artists we admire, and saying:

  • This is what I’m exploring.
    This is what matters to me.
    This is where I am, right now.

A Final Thought

If you only have three minutes, you don’t need to say everything. Just say something true. That’s enough.

Thanks for reading –

Lyn

Listening for What Comes Next

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(On stepping back from something good to make space for something new)

The other day, I received a note from a student that touched me deeply:

“You’ve been one of my favorites in Painting With Fire, and I was disappointed not to see your name in the lineup this time. I’ve made several pieces based on your inspiration and really love them.”

I sat with that for a while.

There is no greater gift for a teacher than to know that something you’ve shared has taken root in someone else’s work—has become part of their visual language, their confidence, their creative unfolding. That kind of connection doesn’t disappear. It stays, quietly, in the work.

And yet—this year, I’ve made the decision to step back from teaching with Painting With Fire. Not because I’ve lost my love for teaching or PWF, quite the opposite. It’s because I want to return to a place of discovery.

And let me say this clearly—please don’t YOU step back from Painting With Fire. It remains one of the most vibrant, generous, and inspiring communities I know. Some of my favorite teachers are there right now, carrying forward the traditions of encaustic with brilliance, depth, and heart. You will be in very good hands, as will I, since I will be there as a learner.

But after five years of developing classes, refining processes, and guiding others through encaustic’s luminous layers, I’ve begun to feel the persistent pull toward something less defined. Less practiced. Less known. I want to teach from the edge again.

Winter Dance, Lyn Belisle 2025

Not from a place of repetition—even meaningful repetition—but from that slightly uncertain space where something new is forming. The place where I’m asking questions instead of answering them. Here are the classes I’ve taught with PWF over the last five years:

2021
Myth and Mist
Encaustic Surface Design

2022
Gauze, Paper, Plaster and Wax
Shaman Spirit

2023
Unfolding Stories
The Birds and the Beads

2024
The Lotus Book
Diaphanous Vessels

 

2025
Sumi-e Serinity
Synthography and Wax

In many ways, stepping back for a year feels like coming back to the heart of why I began working in encaustic in the first place. The medium itself resists control. It asks for responsiveness, for intuition, for a willingness to let the work evolve in its own time.

So now, I feel the need to step back into unknown territory again. This doesn’t mean I’m leaving teaching behind (I’ll probably be back with PWF next year – those dear people are my family!). It means I’m just making space for what comes next. And I have an idea, but it’s just that — an idea.

The workshops I offer moving forward will grow out of what genuinely inspires me in the moment—whether that’s vessels and fragments, fiber and wax, image and story, or the complex language of assembled things. They will still be rooted in everything I’ve learned and loved—but they will be more exploratory, and also more symbolic.

And to those who have taken my classes, followed along, or made work inspired by something I’ve shared—please know how much that means to me. Your work is not a continuation of mine. It’s a transformation of it. And that’s the whole point.

So if you don’t see my name in a familiar place this year, it’s only because I’m in the studio—listening, experimenting, and finding my way toward something new.

As makers, we come to recognize that inner turning—the moment when it’s time to step away from what we know and trust what’s just beginning to take shape.

That, too, is a form of devotion.

You may be there, too.

Thanks for reading—
♥Lyn

Influencer or Inspirer?

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Influencers and Inspirers: Two Very Different Currents

Imaginary influencer 🙂

The other day, I was looking through some recent posts online—just checking in, as we all do from time to time. I was thinking once again about “influencers,” since I’d just finished a book called The Inheritance in which one of the main characters describes herself a “professional influencer.”

I saw intriguing work in many posts –  polished presentations, confident voices, a dizzying array of directions.


    “This is what’s trending.” (Fluid art, neon/glow-in-the-dark painting, and spray painting are trending for their high-energy, modern aesthetic.)

    “This is what’s selling.” (personalized jewelry, crochet plushies, cherry or pastry-themed items)

    “This is what you should be doing right now.” (pets/animals, personal expression, local landmarks, and comforting, soul-soothing settings)


They reach so many of us now, shaping not just what we see, but what we begin to believe matters. And these people actually know how to present those great Instagram reels! (I still struggle with social media).

For a moment, looking at all the posts, I felt that familiar anxiety—a persistent question rising up: Am I behind? But then, almost as quickly, something else surfaced, a different kind of voice. It wasn’t loud or urgent. Just steady and a bit humorous — “Go back to the studio”.

I’ve been thinking about that, and about the difference between two forces that shape our creative lives:

INFLUENCE and INSPIRATION

They sound similar. But they move us in very different ways.

Influence Moves from the Outside In

Influencers show us what’s possible, what we can purchase or emulate.They introduce tools, techniques, materials. They also help us discover artists we might never have found. They can open doors and expand our sense of what art can be if we hop down a new rabbit hole.There’s real value there. But influence often comes with a subtle pressure. It points outward:

     Look here.
    Try this.
    Keep up.

It can make everything feel a little faster, a little more comparative, a little more like a current you’re trying to keep up with. And sometimes, without realizing it, we begin to measure our work against what is most visible—not what is most meaningful.

Inspiration Moves from the Inside Out

An inspirer does something entirely different.

    They don’t tell you what to make.
    They don’t hand you a formula.

Instead, they awaken something. A question. A memory. A deeply personal sense of possibility that feels unmistakably your own.

An inspirer might be:

  • a teacher who asks the right question at the right moment
  • a line in a poem that won’t leave you alone (one of my favorites)
  • a piece of art that moves you before you understand it
  • a mistake in the studio that opens an unexpected door

Inspiration doesn’t rush you. It doesn’t compare. It simply says: Begin.

The Artist’s Dilemma

Of course, we live in a new world where visibility matters. We share our work, we learn from each other, we participate in a larger creative conversation. And that’s a good thing. But somewhere along the way, it becomes easy to confuse direction with momentum, to follow what is working, rather than what is calling.

To ask: What should I be making right now that’s good enough to sell? instead of: What is asking to be made through me?

Lately, I’ve been trying to make a small shift, not a rejection of influence—but a rebalancing. When I feel that tightening—that sense of falling behind—I try to pause and ask: Is this influencing me, or inspiring me? “Influence” often leaves me thinking and wandering. Inspiration leaves me wanting to work. Influence fills my head. Inspiration moves my hands.

A Few Reflective Questions

If you’re in the studio—or on your way there—you might ask yourself:

  • Who are your inspirers right now?
  • What kind of work makes you want to begin, not compare?
  • When do you feel most like yourself as an artist?

These aren’t questions with quick answers. And that last one is the most important.

We may be living in a world shaped by influencers and constant sharing, but inspiration is still ours to trust. It hasn’t gone anywhere.

Read these lines by Mary Oliver (one of my Inspirers) and see if they inspire you to explore what “grace” might look like through the artwork that you do – that is inspiration!

As artists, we have a unique way of working with ideas that can’t be seen or delivered by Influencers.. We can take an abstract word like “grace” as Inspiration—a feeling, a question, a memory—and give it form. That translation is where some of the most personal and meaningful work begins.

I hope you find extraordinary inspiration today in a world that needs more beauty.

Thanks for reading!
~~ Lyn

Grace, Lyn Belisle, 2022

Building a Portrait

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23

An Encaustic Collage of Sam Takeuchi

One of the most delightful things that came out of our recent “Encantos” exhibit at the  Taos Ceramic Center was a commission request. Sam Takeuchi, architect and artist from Santa Fe, requested that I create a portrait of him in the same style as the Santo Niño collages in the exhibition (below).

Talk about an intimidating request! Sam is a master of so much – pottery, woodworking, antique Japanese crafts, architecture. I featured a short video of his Santa Fe studio in an earlier post. How would it be possible to capture the essence of a multifaceted person like Sam in an encasutic collage?

The answer, I realized, was not to try to show everything about him. Instead, the portrait had to grow step by step from a few meaningful clues. That’s actually a wonderful way to approach any portrait collage.

But first, I needed a photo of Sam, so he obligingly stood against the gallery wall while a took some pictures with my phone. Sam has a wonderful face – wise and humorous and lived-in.

It’s a good idea to take several versions. Expressions can change the whole feel of the work – see how different smiling Sam and serious Sam appear.

When I got home from Taos and started working on the collage, I realized that I could incorporate bits of the images I had taken at his studio to deepen the meaning. His workspace is filled with beautifully worn wooden tools, carpets, pottery forms, and objects that reflect his deep connection to Japanese craftsmanship and architectural design. Those images gave me a visual vocabulary to work with.

So, if the first step was to choose a photograph of Sam that felt natural and contemplative, the second step was to look closely at the studio photos and ask myself:

What elements here represent Sam’s world?

Wood grain.
Asian Carpets.
Handmade vessels.
Architectural structure.
Quiet, thoughtful spaces.

Those became the first building blocks of the collage. I even made a tear-up collage sheet of some of the assorted details from his studio elements:

Once I had those elements, the process became almost like assembling a small stage set. The background design echoed the textures of his studio. Shapes and lines hinted at architecture.But I also included other “encanto” elements from the Santo Niño collages to connect them back to Sam, like fantasy patterns and icons.

This is that in-between stage before the wax that always makes me stop and pause:

When I started applying the clear wax, the encaustic layers softened the edges so the images felt woven together rather than pasted together.

Sam and I emailed back and forth after this stage – here was the photo that I sent him when I thought the portrait was probably finished:

Encaustic work is notoriously difficult to photograph, but you can see hints of the complexity of the layers of wax and mulberry paper. Sam make some very small final suggestions befroe it was completely finished.

It’s good to share the process with the subject. This is the final piece that was shipped to Santa Fe (and arrived safely – hooray!).

Sam told me he has the perfect place for his new portrait. We’re trading work for payment, which is my favorite kind of arrangement. I loved this project—but this is still how I picture Sam when I think of him: sitting serenely in his studio.

As you can see, the portrait wasn’t just Sam’s face—it was Sam’s environment, his mythology, and the atmosphere of the place he built..

If you’d like to try something similar, here’s a simple approach:

  1. Choose a photograph of the person.
    Something natural and expressive works best.

  2. Collect visual clues about their world.
    Photos of their studio, favorite objects, tools, landscapes, or materials.

  3. Select a few elements that feel essential.
    Not everything—just the things that carry the strongest sense of the person.

  4. Build the collage around those clues.
    Think of it as creating a small visual story rather than a literal portrait.

  5. Don’t be afraid to add touches of myth or magic.

What began as an intimidating commission turned into something much more interesting: a reminder that a portrait doesn’t have to explain a whole life.

Sometimes it only needs a few well-chosen fragments. And when those fragments are right, the person appears almost by magic. I’d love to see what you do with the concept a personal collage portrait.

Two posts, two portraits — From the courageous gaze of Susie King Taylor in the previous post to the thoughtful presence of Sam Takeuchi in his studio, these portraits remind me that a face is never just a face—it is a doorway into a life, a story, and the fragments that help us see it.

Thanks, as always, for reading SHARDS!  ~~Lyn