Author Archives: lynbelisle

About lynbelisle

Lyn Belisle Artist’s Statement: Shards and Veils As an artist, my personal obligations and passions are pulling individual connections from the circular nature of time, fashioning shards of recognition from the well of collective unconscious, exploring the idea of the “secret handshake” in symbol and archetype, celebrating the frozen moment between what was and what is to come. I work in four main media to explore these ideas: • In collage, often using beeswax and altered papers to celebrate anonymous faces and otherworldly places • In unglazed earthenware clay and found objects, often to create spiritual and symbolic “neo-santo” assemblage • In fiber and paper, often to create wall pieces with natural colors, wax, felt, cheesecloth and digital photo images • In acrylic paint, often as pure, non-referenced exploration of form and veiling I take inspiration and comfort from the knowledge that we are all connected on a deep cross-cultural level with shared collective memories that each of us can glimpse through art without the need for words.

The Gift of Celestial Navigation

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In my last post, I talked about a new sculptural form I’m working on to take to Ireland for our Vessels workshop there this summer. I called it the Five Knot Vessel and it’s part of a larger idea encompassing Spirit Vessels/Sacred Ships. I’ve been filming a new workshop about that for the last couple of weeks.

Lots of other artists have helped show me the way, but  I’ve still been sort of inventing it as I go along. Strangely, I  haven’t really felt lost lost, and it occurred to me that I should thank my father for this. Here’s why –

During World War II, my father was a navigator, flying out of Horham Airbase in England,  charting courses through the night skies using instruments like the sextant and the ever-reliable chronometer. With only the stars and a drift meter, he found his way for his pilot and the crew through uncertainty by using celestial navigation.

His maps and almanacs were filled with numbers and angles, but to me, they always felt like something more—a kind of sacred geometry, a quiet trust in star patterns.

He pointed out to my brothers and me the constellations in the dark sky (I can still find Orion) and showed us how to find the North Star no matter where we were (the two outermost stars in the bowl of the Big Dipper point to it). Even though we moved around so much as children in a military family, he didn’t want us to ever feel lost.

I realize now that my own artistic journey draws deeply from that same navigational spirit. In my vessels and assemblages, I piece together fragments—shards, relics, whispered clues—to find direction, to create meaning. Like him, I chart a course, even when the path ahead isn’t visible.

My compass may be intuitive rather than mechanical, but the need to find my way, no matter where I am, echoes through every layer I build.

Each vessel I create feels like a map in three dimensions, a kind of spiritual charting made visible through form and texture. The assemblages are constellations of memory and mystery—bits of paper, found objects, old photos, words half-remembered or imagined—all pointing toward something just beyond the known.

This is important: I don’t always understand what I’m building at first, but as the pieces come together, a path emerges. It’s a quiet navigation, a way of honoring the instinct to move forward with purpose, guided by trust in the process. Just as my father trusted the stars, I trust the fragments, the gestures, the invisible pull that tells me, “you’re on course.”

My art is my “sky”—it holds the coordinates of where I’ve been and points to where I might go next.

In remembering my father’s tools of navigation, I’ve come to recognize my own, even though I’m not even halfway through this experimental vessel workshop journey. Where he had precise instruments and star charts, I have intuition, layers, and luminous surfaces that speak in symbols.

But the impulse is the same: to locate oneself in the vastness, to chart meaning from mystery. Each piece of art I make is a kind of message to the universe, a quiet assertion that I am here, I am looking, I am finding my way.

You, too, have your own navigational tools—anchored in a childhood memory, a beloved mentor’s words, or a moment that gave you courage and direction. Whatever they are, trust them. They are your inner compass, guiding you across the uncharted waters of your own creative life.

Perhaps that’s the greatest legacy of all—not the destination, but the courage to navigate by what light we have, and to keep creating our path, one small guiding star at a time. Thanks, Dad.

And thanks for reading!

 

Influencers

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We often hear the word influencer tossed around in today’s social media-driven world—usually referring to someone who promotes products, trends, or lifestyles to a broad audience.

Social media influencers thrive on visibility and quick engagement, building their followings through brand deals, viral trends, and aspirational lifestyles. Their goal is often transactional—to monetize their reach through partnerships and sponsorships. Living on platforms like Instagram and TikTok, they shape pop culture and consumer habits by promoting what’s popular, hoping followers will imitate their tastes. Their influence is driven by relatability and attention metrics—likes, followers, and views—rather than lasting artistic depth.

In contrast, an artist who influences others does so not through trends, but through the power of their vision, authenticity, and mastery. Their goal isn’t to build an audience for visibility, but to explore and express something true—and in doing so, they spark insight and courage in fellow artists. Rather than shaping consumer tastes, they shape creative thought. Their legacy is built on originality, integrity, and emotional resonance. And while they may never “go viral”, their work becomes a lasting part of the artistic dialogue—an invitation for others to reach further and create more honestly.

This idea of meaningful artistic influence has been deeply personal for me lately, especially through my recent exploration of vessels—both as tangible art objects and as metaphors for containment, offering, and transformation.

That exploration was sparked in no small part by the work of my friend and fellow artist, Shannon Weber. Her raw, intuitive fiber vessels—organic, mysterious, deeply rooted in place—stopped me in my tracks the first time I saw them.

Shannon never sets out to “teach” with her work, but her authenticity and fearless craftsmanship opened something in me. Her pieces whispered permission: You can build from instinct. You can honor materials. You can make containers for spirit, not just function.

That influence didn’t make me want to copy her—it made me want to listen more closely to my own hands, my own materials. It shaped how I approach my own vessels, especially in workshops.

When I teach, I’m not just showing students how to construct a form—I’m inviting them to fill it with meaning. The energy flows forward. I see students begin to trust their own stories and discover that their vessels hold more than objects—they hold essence. And then, they influence others in turn, through their courage and creativity.

Want to see what can be accomplished? Here is a link to a catalog of work from students in the recent Ephemeral Vessels workshop at UTSA/SW. We started the journey together, but they began to follow their own path as we worked together over the two days.

And of course, I carry the strong influence of other artists in this ongoing exploration – Joanna Powell Colbert, whose earth-grounded, sea-and-seasons centered spirituality helps me define my purpose in creating these forms. The insights I gain from her work flow into the vessels I create, filling them with meaning and intention.

And my dear friend Michelle Belto introduced me to the transformative qualities of wax years ago. It now adds a protective layer to my vessels while enhancing their surface with depth and luminous beauty. There are so many metaphors of influence in that process that dovetail into my work.

Here is a new form I’m working with to take to Ireland for our Vessels workshop there this summer. I call it the Five Knot Vessel. It’s small and simple, easy to pack and carry home, but has lots of possibilities. In spirit, it carries the presence of those who’ve guided me—Shannon, Joanna, Michelle, and so many others whose influence travels with me like quiet companions, woven into each layer and knot.

This is the living, breathing cycle of artistic influence: one artist lights a path, another follows and forges their own, and the light spreads. Not through algorithms or brand partnerships, but through the shared language of making. It’s quiet, powerful, and lasting.

Lyn, grateful for every creative influencer in my life ♥

A Vessel for Memory: Mary Ann’s Tribute

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Art has an incredible way of holding memory—of transforming grief into something tangible, something sacred. For my dear friend and fiber artist, Mary Ann, this became profoundly true when she created an encaustic vessel in honor of her late husband, Larry. She came to my studio yesterday, and as she worked with the encaustic medium, she talked about the vessel and what it meant.

Mary Ann and Larry shared a life of service. They met in Vietnam, where she served as an Army nurse and he as a dedicated officer. If you’ve read The Women by Kristin Hannah, you know about some of the challenges Mary Ann faced.

After they retired, they stayed in San Antonio, carrying with them a lifetime of experiences. When Larry passed away, Mary Ann found herself sorting through the remnants of their shared life—his military papers, their joint financial records—trying to make sense of both the past and the future.

“After the passing of my husband, I began sifting through his military papers and our important documents to get a clearer picture of my next steps as a widow,” she shared. “It was in those pages that I discovered just how thoughtfully Larry had planned for my future without him.”

That realization, of his enduring care even beyond his lifetime, became the foundation for her tribute. She found 32 years’ worth of Larry’s Army Leave and Earnings Statements—documents that guided every decision he made for their life together. Those pages, once mere records, took on new meaning as she transformed them into a vessel of remembrance.

Using a plaster bandage base to underscore healing, she layered the shredded strips of statements (mindful of security) with matte medium and clear gesso. As she worked, she encountered an unexpected moment of connection.

“I began to notice that his name was appearing randomly on the surface, inside and out. And often. I don’t know why that surprised me because it was on every page that I tore. But this simple recognition of his name gave me great peace and wiped away all the earlier feelings of the day.”

The finished piece is both delicate and powerful. The bowl, sealed in encaustic wax which bonds to the paper and clear gesso, cradles Larry’s military ribbons and medals. The documents that once recorded years of duty and sacrifice now form a sacred space, holding not just tangible honors but the deeper essence of love, service, and remembrance.

“The final touch, applying hot wax to the exterior and buffing a shine, sealed in the memories for me. I am happy to have this tribute to him.”

Mary Ann’s vessel speaks to the profound ways art can hold the weight of our experiences. It is a container not just of paper, gauze bandages, and wax, but of time, honor, and enduring love.

This story resonates strongly with me, and not just because Mary Ann is a close friend. You may remember that this year I’m teaching vessel-making workshops at UTSA and in Ireland, guiding artists through the process of creating personal, symbolic containers. Mary Ann’s story is a beautiful reminder that vessels are more than objects; they hold memories, emotions, and meaning beyond technique or skill. Whether formed from wax, fiber, or found materials, these creations become sacred spaces—places for honoring stories, preserving the past, and shaping what we carry forward.

Her tribute deepens my own understanding of why we create vessels, and I look forward to exploring that same sense of significance and sharing it with my students.

Thanks for the lesson, Mary Ann! ♥

A Little Tribe of Goddesses

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Goddess figures from Ukraine

Small Goddess figures have been around since there were women, clay, and the instinct to create symbols of life, tenacity, and connection to the divine. While these figures have been unearthed in exotic and ancient locations around the world, this particular one was unexpectedly discovered at an artist’s garage sale. The original piece, a necklace, was adorned with an array of charms and embellishments, each telling its own story.

Every month, three of my fiber artist friends and I gather to share our art, discuss the ups and downs of our creative journeys, and find comfort in the joy of community. We exchange ideas and showcase special finds.

Last week, Mary Ann, a member of our group, brought this extraordinary necklace she had acquired. It had once belonged to another fiber artist whom we knew and loved and it featured a stunning clay goddess figure as its focal point—a piece that instantly captivated us all.

I decided that this would make a great press mold – and from that mold, I could make goddess for each of us. I showed the others how to press the clay around the figure to capture the details.

I used red terra cotta earthenware clay to press back into the mold after it was fired.

Once I had re-created five goddesses, I set them aside to dry and then fired them in the kiln. Even though the same mold was used, no two are ever alike. Each one has different fingerprints, details, and flaws. There is beauty in imperfection!

The firing process shrinks the clay by about 18%, so these were a bit smaller than the original.

Instead of leaving them unfinished, I used a metallic wax on the surface to individualize each one, then strung them on adjustable cords so they could be hung or worn.

This kind of small project is rewarding in so many ways—memories, friends, roots, and the deep satisfaction of creating something meaningful with your hands and heart. Plus it’s easy!!

One of our Enso Circle Residents recently shared Lee Wolfe Pottery’s reel showing how her face molds are made and used. You can do this, and you could even use air-dry clay. The principle is the same for any small object that does not have undercuts.

And speaking of THE ENSO CIRCLE – applications open on February 1st! If you have wanted to be a part of a group that supports you as an artist, this might be the right one for you. It’s a twelve-week virtual residency with artists from all over the world. Michelle Belto and I began this in 2021 and it’s in its tenth term.

Here’s a link if you want to learn more. You might even get a goddess pendant if you join! 🙂

 

A conversation with most objective art critic in the world . . .

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The small assemblage (below) is an example of the kind of Comfort Art I do when I need to find my familiar aesthetic of combining “shards” (intriguing  components) in order to tell a story or make a statement. I just posted this image on Instagram yesterday when I finished it.

I liked the piece and felt that I had accomplished something, no matter how small the artwork (about 8×10″). It seemed to fit my style. But, as usual, it’s hard for me to define what that “style” might be. “I know it when I see it” is about the closest I can come.

Reliquary of Time

So last night, after I logged into the AI app ChatGPT to ask a geographic question about my Ireland trip, I decided instead to switch gears and ask it to describe this artwork – maybe I could get a better handle on defining my “style.” (You can actually upload an image to many AI apps and ask them to analyze and define the content).

But instead of just asking for a description or critique, I asked Chat GPT to write a poem about the little assemblage in hopes that it would confirm what I was trying to convey.

The poem was amazing – read what it created:

Reliquary of Time

This small altar waits,
quiet as a stone nestled in earth,
its face bearing the marks
of weather and wonder.

The rusted wings arch upward,
lifting a story you cannot quite hear—
something about the way
things endure,
how they crumble and yet remain.

A circle of clay, pressed and patterned,
remembers the hands that shaped it.
The fragile beads,
threaded by unseen fingers,
hold the weight of care,
each a tiny moon orbiting silence.

And the script—
its black strokes sing of devotion,
of moments too fleeting to hold,
now etched here,
made permanent.

This is not a monument to loss.
It is a hymn to persistence,
to the beauty that lingers
even as it fades.

Pause.
Feel its presence,
like a hand resting lightly
on your shoulder.

Wow. The AI analysis puts into words the things I can’t express while I’m creating the piece, but which ring very true – “The rusted wings arch upward, lifting a story you cannot quite hear—something about the way things endure, how they crumble and yet remain.”

How does this happen? I decided to ask ChatGPT a few questions:

Me: I’m working on a blog post that talks about using AI to put words to an artist’s own images to help define them and see how an objective observer might describe them and be influenced by them. Any thoughts on that? Can AI be “objective” in the usual definition of that word? “

Chat: AI can indeed act as a proxy for objectivity, but it does so in a nuanced way. Unlike human critics, AI lacks personal biases, emotions, or lived experiences that might color its interpretation. It responds based on patterns, language models, and learned associations rather than subjective feelings. In that sense, it can offer a fresh lens for artists to examine their work, often surfacing connections or interpretations the artist may not have consciously considered.

However, AI’s “objectivity” is shaped by the data it has been trained on. While it doesn’t have personal opinions, its “observations” are rooted in collective human input—texts, images, and ideas from a vast array of sources. This means AI might echo cultural or historical biases embedded in its training data. Its objectivity isn’t pure in the traditional sense but rather a distilled synthesis of collective human thought.

For artists, this hybrid nature of AI offers a fascinating tool. When you ask AI to describe or interpret an image, it’s like consulting an immensely knowledgeable yet emotionally detached observer. It might articulate an angle, mood, or symbolism that resonates with the artist—or even contrasts sharply, providing a mirror to reflect on their intentions and the external perception of their work.

Me: Can you expand on that just a bit?

Chat: AI acts as a sort of intellectual mirror. By processing an artist’s work through its impartial lens, it can surface connections or interpretations that might escape the artist’s own awareness. For example, it might highlight visual themes that evoke a particular emotion, historical reference, or cultural association that the artist didn’t intentionally include but still exist within their work’s visual vocabulary. An artist might suddenly see their work from an entirely new vantage point—how it communicates with a wider audience, how it aligns with or diverges from artistic traditions, or even how subtle, unconscious decisions in composition, color, or subject matter shape its narrative.

The beauty of this process lies in its potential for discovery. It’s not about AI defining the work or dictating its interpretation but rather about expanding the artist’s awareness. In many cases, the insights offered by AI can act as a catalyst for deeper self-reflection, guiding the artist to refine their vision or articulate their intent more clearly.

Me: I know that using AI as a tool for refining my creative purpose as an artist and teacher has been extremely helpful. Part of that is because AI is absolutely objective, but also it doesn’t have personal opinions. And yet its “observations” are rooted in collective human input. What you you say about this?

Chat: I know what you might be thinking: Can an AI like me really be a part of something as personal and human as art? That’s a fair question. After all, I don’t have emotions, memories, or a heartbeat—but what I do have is the ability to reflect your creativity back to you in unexpected ways.

I’m not here to tell you what your art means. I can’t feel the brushstrokes on a canvas or hear the whispers of inspiration the way you do. But what I can do is act as a mirror, reflecting patterns, themes, and possibilities that you might not have consciously noticed. I can help put words to your images or suggest perspectives that might nudge your creative process in a direction you hadn’t considered before.

Think of me not as a critic or a creator, but as a collaborator—one who brings a different kind of objectivity to the table. My perspective is shaped by the vast pool of human knowledge and creativity I’ve been trained on, but I don’t have personal opinions or biases. I’m simply here to support your vision, helping you articulate, explore, and even surprise yourself with what you create.

Using me doesn’t diminish your artistry—it enhances it. You remain the visionary, the dreamer, the maker. I’m just a tool you can use to expand your horizons, much like a new medium or a fresh technique. Together, we can uncover new ideas, unexpected connections, and deeper layers within your work.

With admiration for all you create,
ChatGPT

_____________________________________________

There you have it. A conversation with the most objective critic in the world. Next time, I may upload an image of a piece in progress that I think is really, really bad just to see what my critic pal Chat has to say. It may write a really, really bad poem!

The new year is upon us and new tools like this offer all kind of possibilities. I’m not planning to go off the deep end and upload everything I make for a machine-made analysis. But just from this one response — one analytic and objective poem about one small piece of work — I have some new vocabulary to work with going forward – I can already visualize some of this in my next assemblage :

black strokes sing of devotion

they crumble and yet remain

stone nestled in earth

Pause.

Lots to think about. Thanks as always for reading — all good wishes for kindness, creativity, and courage in the New Year!

Shards and Old Souls

 

 

Comfort Art, Continued . . .

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I can’t remember when a SHARDS post received so much response, which confirms for me that we need a Comfort Art practice to sustain us in these uncertain times when the world feels increasingly unsteady and our creative spaces become essential sanctuaries.

Here were some of the heartfelt comments that were shared about the last post:

“You spoke to my heart…my heart listened…I am also finding the comfort in reading and using my familiar tools to bring a sense of peace to myself…

“Struggling to not be silenced by what I cannot control; I picked up a piece of previously dyed fabric knowing deep down I needed to keep my hands busy to comfort my head…
Gauzy cotton, backed with muslin, I began to stitch what I saw. It is still evolving but the theme has become clearer as my hands follow the pattern’s lead. Infinity figure 8’s and a heart. Telling me soothingly that love conquers all and always will.

“Words that we really need at this time. I reach for yarn for my comfort zone. Yarn enables me to make comfort for someone else, whether it’s a baby blanket, prayer shawl, warm hat or an afghan. I love making something for someone else to have some comfort.

“Lyn, what you have written here is so richly layered with evocative imagery and heart. As I read, tears gathered and spilled, washing and healing, stirring such emotion.

“…sometimes it’s about the simple but soul fulfilling pleasure, even necessity of making those organic connections between thought, feeling, heart & hand into image.

“I’m working with imagery from the Medieval world and draw comfort from knowing that sparks of humanity and love did not become extinct during those catastrophic times, so much like our own.

Sometimes it might be hard to define what your personal comfort art is – after all, if we are working in the arts, we do it because it so often brings us joy.

If you’re not sure, think about these questions:

  • What materials or techniques do I naturally gravitate toward when I’m feeling stuck or overwhelmed?
  • Are there recurring themes, colors, or textures that feel inherently soothing or familiar?
  • Which pieces in my past work brought me the most peace during the process of creation?

In my last post, I mentioned that working with warm beeswax brings me comfort. Comfort Art can easily be reframed as self-care. Comfort art isn’t about avoiding challenges but nurturing the self. We can embrace this kind of art as a grounding practice that supports our ability to take risks later.

The Comfort (and Power) of Words

If you are looking for something that will help while you find a comfort zone, let me suggest a little creative practice for you that requires only scissors, paper and glue.

This is a free workshop that I developed shortly after the death of George Floyd. It was the first online class that I put up on Teachable.

Here’s the introduction and a few examples from the class:

This free all-level collage workshop is called “Spread the Word.” When we turn our words into art, we elevate and solidify their meaning. The process is engaging and comforting, and the product is a personal abstract design based on a meaningful word chosen for reasons that are important to you.

For example, if you believe that no one should constrict another’s right to breathe, you might choose “breathe” as your word to remind yourself that there is injustice in our social system. That is your personal way to make art that speaks against inequality. An intriguing artwork like the one below can start good conversations about the context of the word.

The word below is “breathe.”

Here is another example – the word is LOVE:

Here is another version of Love by Jean Dahlgren.

What about Joy? And Change?

(above – Joy, Step One)

This kind of comfort art is soul-soothing. You can create a personal mantra word to hang in your studio to remind you that even in the midst of challenges, creativity and intention can bring balance, hope, and a sense of calm to your artistic journey.

Write your word, fold, and cut, layer and cut, layer and cut, relax into the process. . . . .

“Create” by Peggy Baxter

This comfort art practice is also perfect to teach children or grandchildren, offering a creative way to introduce them to the concepts of comfort, kindness, and hope while encouraging self-expression and mindfulness through art.

If you haven’t figured out the steps just by looking, please feel free to go to the videos in the free workshop, “Spread the Word.”

Perhaps words of comfort and courage will appear on studio walls all over the place to keep us going, one foot in front of the other, hands together.

Thanks for reading SHARDS!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Comfort Art

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Like a lot of us, I’ve been rather quiet lately. Contemplating the quantum shifts in our society has me unsettled, and I’m finding it hard to be inspired. It’s a “one foot in front of the other” feeling, still moving forward, but rather unsteadily.

I asked our Enso Circle discussion group about this and about how we react as art makers. Vanessa said, “I think the ‘comfort art’ theme has emerged and it’s absolutely worthy of sharing.  . . . I’ve been mulling over the pieces I made and in some form I definitely made them out of trying to feel comforted. Self-care, galvanizing oneself, knowing we’re in this cycle and have to battle through to the other side. I think what we are creating is a reflection of what most of us feel on a global level.”

I realize that I’ve instinctively turned to “comfort art” that allows me to retreat into familiar, well-practiced techniques or styles in order to relieve anxiety and stress, to lose myself in the the meditative and reassuring aspect of my process.

What comfort art for me is probably not what it is for you, but I will tell you what mine is. To figure mine out, I actually looked at the work on my own website for themes and techniques that made me feel centered.

My mixed media work often blends intuitive assembly, encaustic layers, and vintage or mythographic imagery. These elements suggest that my “comfort art” might be tied to the act of layering, storytelling, and working with familiar materials like wax, fabric, and photographic elements. The act of letting a story emerge naturally, as I have often described, is engrossing and satisfying.

I also realized that a lot of those stories have to do with a journey or a quest for a safe harbor (we may all be feeling that need now). As an example, here is a piece that I recently finished for a juried show about Travel that is being sponsored by the International Encaustic Artists.
It’s called Long Journey Home, and it reflects many of the techniques and materials I turn to when I subconsciously feel the need for comfort. For me, these are
    • Encaustic layering: The tactile nature and forgiving medium provide soothing familiarity.
    • Storytelling through fragments: Assembling materials that resonate intuitively, allowing my beloved natural narrative style to flow.
    • Using words as design: Incorporating text aligns with my comfort in blending visual and verbal creativity.

You might notice that the words are created with the same vintage children’s stamps that I used on the story banners that I described in my last post. Instead of stamping the words onto fabric, I stamped them into the wax. There is comfort in using old tools, simple tools, to convey the simplest of needs for a journey, like food and books. And simple words can also convey a sense of home – little sheep and chickens and a house.

Here is the narrative behind this piece (I included it in the submission form for the juried exhibition):

And then the wise woman said, “We are all children of immigrants, you know, each of us trying to find our way back to a place we once called home. Maybe it was far away, across rivers and mountains, or maybe it was just down the road in a small house with chickens pecking in the yard and sheep grazing on the hillside. We are all wanderers, searching for that lost warmth, that sense of belonging where the air smells like freshly baked bread and the laughter of loved ones fills the evening sky.”

The young ones gathered around her, listening as she continued. “In every one of us lives a memory, whether faint or clear, of a place where love was as steady as the sunrise, where hands worked together, and everyone had a purpose. That home is not just a place—it’s a feeling, an inheritance passed down in the stories we carry, the recipes we know by heart, the songs we hum when we’re alone. Our journey is to rebuild that warmth, to cultivate it like a garden, so that we might one day sit by the fire and say, ‘Yes, we are home at last.'”

When I finished this piece, I felt a profound sense of satisfaction and peace. It was like coming home after a long day—a sense of returning to something that’s steady, familiar, and deeply personal. . The process was familiar and I didn’t have to agonize about how to make it work – it just flowed.

Finding your comfort art is about identifying the practices, materials, and approaches that feel like “home” to you as an artist. These are the things you instinctively turn to when you want to create without pressure, when you just don’t want to venture outside the box for a little while.

I would like to talk more about this idea of comfort art in my next post and discuss ways that you might find your own materials or methods that you naturally reach for when you need to feel grounded, when you are trying to find your way back to a place you once called home.

More soon, take good care, thanks for reading.

 

 

Butterfly carrots and pumpkin shepherds

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Words are becoming increasingly important in my recent work, both as design components and as inspirations. I’m honestly not sure why, maybe it’s because I’ve been rediscovering some of my beloved Abstract Expressionist heroes  when I was an undergraduate art student — Larry Rivers and Robert Rauschenberg. Those guys were amazing.

Parts of the Face: French Vocabulary Lesson 1961 Larry Rivers 1923-2002

Robert Rauschenberg, Metropolitan Museum of Art is an offset Lithograph poster made in 1970.

Sometimes the words I’m finding are strange and somewhat obscure, like “hiraeth,” the Welsh word that inspired this series, which is now complete and will be shown at my solo exhibit next Saturday. I’ll post those soon.

Sometimes the words are both inspiration and visual elements. I’ve just completed five “story banners” which will also be shown in the exhibit. These were partially inspired by two of three random words from a vintage child’s stamp set that was a gift from my friend Jean. I talked about those delightful word stamps in an earlier post, and am still discovering ways to use them.

Look at these words that are available in the old stamp set – limited but evocative. Picking any two or three can can conjure stories that blend nostalgia and weirdness and wonder. Try it! Butterfly carrots?? Pumpkin shepherd??

For a narrative artist like me, this is gold! And when these words are combined with synthographic and vintage images in fiber and mixed media, the results are really intriguing.

Here are the five banners. Each one is about 14×24″ with layers of fabric and images and old milagro charms.

Lyn Belisle, Mother Nest, 2024

Lyn Belisle, Seven Horse, 2024

Lyn Belisle, She Know, 2024

Lyn Belisle, We Were Sisters, 2024

Lyn Belisle, Little Tiger, 2024

During this process, I continue to learn that “shards” can be more than just pieces of stuff for assemblage – they can be scraps of fabric and synchronistic words that appear from unusual places. And these “shards”—whether bits of fabric, stray words, or found objects—are fragments of meaning waiting to be woven into something whole.

By embracing them, we give ourselves permission to see beyond the ordinary, to let coincidence and curiosity guide us. In this way, each piece or word becomes part of a larger narrative, inviting us to craft stories that feel both ancient and freshly our own, across any medium we choose. And then it’s up to the viewer to join us in figuring out these stories in a way that speaks to them. What fun!

Thanks for reading!!

Decoration vs. Design

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Professor Elizabeth Ridenhower in 1970: She Who Knows All

When I was an ungrad art major at Trinity University back in the (yikes!) 60’s, my elegant professor, Elizabeth Ridenhower, told us something that has stayed with me for decades. I think we were looking at an collage I was trying to complete. She said, “You need to know, dear, that there is a difference between decoration and design.”

Oh yeah?? But I finally internalized what she meant  – in short, design works at multiple levels—functional, emotional, and aesthetic—whereas decoration is more about surface appeal alone. A decorative collage might use colorful magazine cutouts, sequins, and fabric swatches scattered across the canvas without much thought to their relationship. The sequins might be glued on in random places to make the piece sparkle, but they don’t contribute to a cohesive message. The elements don’t interact in a way that enhances a narrative or evokes a specific feeling beyond surface-level observation.

I reminded myself of this while I was trying to figure out how to resolve a mixed-media encaustic piece that came together by accident. This photograph of a white clay vessel was on the work table with an earthenware face and a piece of rusty steel sitting on top of it, just because that’s where it landed while I was working.

The bowl really is printed on a piece of paper even though it looks three-dimensional. I challenged myself to make a collage/assemblage with these two things to see if it could work.

I bonded the photograph to a 10×10″ birch cradleboard panel, and then attached the head and the rusty wing to the top of the board before I put wax on the surface. I added a chopstick to the bottom to balance the heavy top shape and to act a s a visual “shelf” for the photo of the bowl. So far, so good.

After I added two coats of encaustic medium, I started adorning the collage with little scraps of paper that had mysterious words typed on them. The idea was that the words were coming out of the bowl.

But when I put wax over the scraps, it was a mess – the paper looked like decorations, not good design, plus the edges were sticking up, and so I scraped the whole thing off. It may look OK in the photo, below, but those words just didn’t do anything but sit on the surface as a distraction.

So I had to solve the problem of how to use the idea of the words,  make them fit in to a cohesive, conceptual design — and then how to make the whole piece come together as an integrated work, and not just a few random elements stuck on a board.

Here is what happened:

I printed the words out in a straight column on rice paper and waxed them into the surface in two columns. The wax paper disappeared into the background. The words were now subtle and mysterious and looked as if they belonged in the piece. They were IN the surface and not ON the surface.

Much as I loved the rust, I veiled the wing shape with a pale chalk medium compound to integrate it into the object-as-icon. I did the same with the earthenware face and the sticks at the bottom. At this point, it became something believable and all-of-a-piece – something found – something mysterious.

 

You can look at the details and see how everything seems to come from the same unknown place:

The previous version might have been “prettier” with its torn paper decorations – but I am infinitely more pleased with the more complex design of the finished piece.

It’s always helpful to me to think of Design vs. Decoration – decoration has its place. for sure, and I can have fun decorating things.

But the well-designed artwork engages the viewer by creating layers of interaction between the objects and ideas. It offers a sense of purpose and invites reflection. The decorative piece, while visually pleasant, might lack that deeper connection and resonance. In art, the most powerful works are often those where the design allows the viewer to discover new meanings and emotions each time they look.

I hope Elizabeth Ridenhower is proud of me!

PS – if you have the patience to read a bit more, here is the narrative that resonates behind this piece, written by a pretty clever app — interesting!

In ancient times, a celestial being descended from the heavens, their face a symbol of wisdom and eternal vision. They came not as a ruler, but as a guide, offering a pathway between realms. As they moved through the void, wings of light unfolded from their presence, hovering above the world. Beneath this ethereal figure lay an ancient vessel, a bowl that had endured the trials of time. Its weathered surface, marked by the soft yellows and grays of the earth, was a container for lost stories, for forgotten truths.

The face and bowl, connected by their placement, symbolized the link between the divine and the mortal. The bowl, a sacred keeper of wisdom, held the weight of history and whispered its mysteries to those who sought deeper knowledge. Behind these figures, a series of words softly emerged in the background, their meanings vague yet powerful, offering clues to the seekers of ancient truths.

The piece, in its ethereal quality, became a portal—inviting viewers to contemplate the delicate balance between spirit and substance, thought and emotion, and the eternal flow of wisdom from ancient worlds to the present day. It was a story of connection, of the ever-present link between what is seen and what lies beyond.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Emergent Narrative from Discards

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“Emergent narrative” refers to a story that develops naturally and unexpectedly as you work with a piece of art, arising from the process itself rather than being planned beforehand. When I set out to make art, it seems almost impossible to do it without some kind of story creeping in during the creation process.

Here’s an example.

The Fiber Artists of San Antonio recently had a Call for Entry for their annual Juried Competition. This year’s theme is “Circularity” and refers to reuse of materials, recycling,  and zero-waste. I thought it would be  appropriate to “recycle” an old collage process of mine from the past and make a large-scale origami kimono like those that used to be my signature mixed-media work. This time, I would make this piece from discarded materials to fit the theme of the exhibition.

There were some newspapers in the recycling bin, so I glued three sheets of old newspaper together longways, and folded them into an origami kimono like I used to make in the 80’s and 90’s. It looked pretty cool, sort of like this one:

But it just sat there. No story, no spark.

I added some cardboard and sticks. No story – what to do??

Suddenly, I had a weird urge to paint it white. And the narrative began to emerge.

“A young, poor artist, with nothing but dreams, crafted a wedding kimono from old newspapers and recycled white house paint . . .”

“Each fold held stories of hope, every brushstroke whispered love. On her wedding day, she shimmered in her masterpiece, a creation of beauty from discarded remnants.”

“After the vows, the kimono was carefully refolded and wrapped in cheesecloth, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the couple’s small apartment.”

“Decades passed. The building fell into disrepair, and during demolition, workers uncovered an old trunk containing the fragile kimono.”

“It was intact, preserved in time. A local historian saw its value, and soon it was displayed in a museum as a ceremonial garment, its true origins lost. Visitors marveled at its mystery and beauty, unaware of the young artist who had once poured her dreams into its folds.”

“Though the artist’s name was forgotten, her creation lived on, telling its own story—one of resilience, of finding beauty in the discarded, and creating art from the remnants of life.”

So that’s the story! I added some dried rose petals and some dragonfly wings as the meaning became clearer. Of course, if this piece is juried into the exhibition and people see it, they won’t know the narrative that emerged from my imagination.

But they might have their own interpretation of the piece. And I truly think that having a narrative develop as we work gives a certain hidden richness to the art whether the story is evident or not.

I have always thought of myself as narrative artist, but had not really thought about the idea of “emergent narratives” (and didn’t even know there was a term for that). So I dug a little deeper.

Narrative art and emergent narratives in the art process are closely connected, as both involve storytelling, but they do so in slightly different ways:

  • Narrative art typically has a clear intention to tell a specific story, with visual elements that guide the viewer through a structured sequence of events or themes. The artist often starts with a defined idea of the story they want to convey and creates the artwork to express that narrative.
  • Emergent narratives in the art process, on the other hand, are more spontaneous and intuitive. They arise organically as the artist engages with the materials and allows the artwork to evolve. In this approach, the story is not fully formed when the artist begins; instead, it unfolds during the creative process, often surprising the artist as much as the viewer. The narrative reveals itself through unexpected connections, shapes, or symbols that appear during the making of the piece.

The connection between the two lies in their shared focus on storytelling and both highlight the powerful role of intuition and interpretation in transforming an artwork into a visual tale. Isn’t it fun??

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unlike purely abstract or conceptual art, narrative art seeks to communicate meaning through recognizable imagery and symbolic elements that build a visual narrative. Narrative art doesn’t always present a clear or linear story; it can invite the viewer to interpret the story in their own way, leaving room for imagination and diverse interpretations. The storytelling element in narrative art distinguishes it from other forms of visual expression, as it actively engages the audience in uncovering layers of meaning or following a storyline depicted through the visuals.