Category Archives: Other Artists

Collage as Conversation

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Can these images be part of a conversation with each other?

I am so excited to be part of the upcoming Piecework collage exhibition at Gallery Prudencia. The generous response to my collage work in the Taos exhibition reminded me how deeply people connect to layered imagery — how instinctively they lean in when fragments suggest a story without fully explaining it. That experience nudged me back toward collage as a kind of universal language.

For years, I’ve been drawn to “shards” — not as broken pieces, but as clues to something larger that once existed. Collage (particularly encaustic collage) allows those fragments to speak again. A child’s gaze, a bird poised between shadow and light, a torn scrap of handwriting — these become visual syllables in a language built from juxtaposition and pause.

Collage does not declare; it suggests. Returning to collage feels like returning to that essential impulse: to gather fragments, to listen for the conversation between them. Below are three collages that will be in the group show at Prudencia. This small series is called “Conversations.” I love to work in series!

The Secret, Encaustic Collage, 2026

This first collage in the Conversations series is called “The Secret.“

Who is telling the secret to whom?

At first glance, the most literal reading is that the child is whispering to the bird. The dove rests in the hand, close to the mouth — a confidant. Birds have always been messengers, carriers of news between realms. So perhaps the child entrusts the bird with something fragile — a memory, a fear, a wish.

But then the dynamic shifts.

The bird may be whispering to the child. Its beak is near the lips, not the ear. The exchange is intimate but ambiguous. Is the bird delivering news? A prophecy? A truth the child is not yet ready to fully understand?

And then there is us. Perhaps we are holding the bird!

The child’s gaze is direct. Unblinking. The eyes are not turned toward the bird — they look outward. Toward the viewer. Which raises another possibility: the secret is being shared with us. The bird is intermediary, but the child knows we are watching. We become part of the exchange. Isn’t it fun to interpret collage as conversation?

The First Right Answer, encaustic collage, 2026

If The Secret is a whisper shared outward, The First Right Answer, second in the series,  feels inward — almost instructional.

Who is speaking here?

The girl’s gaze is lowered. Unlike the first piece, she is not looking at us. She is listening. Her face tilts toward the bird, but there is no theatrical gesture. The conversation is quiet, concentrated. The moment feels suspended just before comprehension.

The bird, darker and more angular than the dove in The Secret, feels less like a carrier of innocence and more like a voice of discernment. Its beak is pointed, alert. The metallic copper shape cutting across its body suggests signal or transmission — like a tuning fork, a frequency.

So perhaps:

  • The bird is giving the answer.
  • The girl is receiving it.
  • Or the answer is emerging between them.

But the title complicates everything.

“The First Right Answer” implies that there will be others. It acknowledges process. Trial. Error. Learning.

In collage, the direction of the gaze alters the conversation. In The Secret, the child looks outward, implicating the viewer in the exchange. In The First Right Answer, the child looks inward, receiving something only she can recognize. Collage allows these subtle shifts to suggest entirely different kinds of dialogue — confession versus recognition, projection versus intuition.

The Dilemma, encaustic collage, 2026

If The Secret is a whisper and The First Right Answer is a recognition, then The Dilemma is the moment of choice.

And here the child looks directly at us again. But this gaze is different from The Secret. It isn’t confiding. It’s searching. Measuring. Almost asking.

Who is speaking in this piece?

Now there are two birds — a black one and a white one — facing each other. They are positioned below the child, like embodiments of opposing voices. Instinct and restraint. Shadow and light. Risk and safety. Memory and possibility.

Unlike the earlier works, the conversation is no longer between human and bird. It is between birds — while the child observes. Or perhaps the birds are projections of her internal dialogue. The title shifts everything.

“The Dilemma” implies tension without resolution. There is no “right answer” yet. No secret successfully delivered. Only the presence of two equally compelling voices.

________________________________________________

Honestly, I had no notion of these conversations when I started on these pieces, but as I worked, they started talking! I tend to work one piece at a time – this keeps the conversation contained in its own “room.”

So if collage can be a conversation, then it is never finished when I step away from the studio table. It continues in the gallery, in the pause between viewer and image, in the stories people quietly bring with them. What I learned in Taos — and what I hope to experience again at Gallery Prudencia — is that these fragments are not mine alone once they are assembled. They become meeting places.

A bird may carry a secret, or offer the first right answer, or argue both sides of a dilemma — but the meaning settles differently for each person who stands before it. That is the gift of collage. In a world that often feels fractured, perhaps there is something deeply human about gathering the pieces and letting them talk to one another — and to us.

2518 N Main Ave. San Antonio, Texas 7821

The Opening Reception for the Piecework exhibition at Gallery Prudencia will be held on Saturday, March 7, from 2 to 4 pm. You will be able to meet the artists on Saturday, March 28, from 2 to 4 pm., with the Artist Talk beginning at 3 pm.

Come have a conversation about collage with the artists — Kim Collins, Nancy Hall, Mary James, Billy L. Keen, Lyn Belisle (me), Sara McKethan, Tim McMeans, Marcia Roberts, Steven G. Smith, Stefani Job Spears, Sheila Swanson, Cris Thompson, and Bethany Ramey Trombley.

♥Lyn

PS And if you want to play with collage, below are two sheets that you can copy, paste, print out, tear up, combine with other pictures, magazine photos,old book pages, and whatever it takes to create your own collage conversation.(If you can’t see them,click on p.2)

Pages: 1 2

On the value of a Circle

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There’s a moment in creative life when nothing looks complete, but something feels undeniably alive. The work on the table may feel uncertain or oddly formless—but underneath that, there’s a hum.

In my last post, I wrote about the imaginal disc stage—that mysterious phase when a future form already exists within us, long before it’s visible. I’ve been thinking about how often artists arrive here not because something has failed, but because something has completed. A body of work ends. A show closes. A direction resolves. And suddenly there’s space—an in-between space that eventually became the foundation for The Enso Circle.

Over time, I’ve noticed that artists often reach out during this phase—not asking what should I make next? so much as how do I stay with what’s forming? There’s a desire for thoughtful conversation, for a few steady points of reflection, for reassurance that “not knowing” is not a failure of practice, but an essential stage of it.

This is where the idea of a circle becomes important. This is why the Enso Circle exists.

Applications open Feb. 1

The Enso Circle began taking shape in conversations that Michelle Belto and I started having back in 2015—ongoing conversations about creative practice, community, and what artists actually need. From the beginning, it wasn’t about acceleration or productivity, but about honoring a particular path of becoming.

It’s now in its 11th term. Since 2021, artists from five countries and 20 states have participated in The Enso Circle, forming a supportive creative community grounded in shared inquiry, reflection, and growth.

Each Enso Circle term unfolds over twelve weeks, allowing time for ideas to surface, shift, and deepen without being rushed.

  • It’s long enough for real momentum to build, and gentle enough to accommodate the realities of life and studio rhythms.
  • The residency fee is intentionally modest—comparatively less than many single weekend workshops—because sustained support should feel accessible and humane.
  • Throughout the term, artists stay connected—to one another, and to Michelle and me—through ongoing conversation on Zoom and Slack with shared reflection, and consistent support as the work takes shape.

In the Enso Circle, twelve artists artists come together with work that is unfinished, unresolved, or perhaps changing direction. Some are beginning something new; others are letting go of what no longer fits. What they share is not a style or medium, but a willingness to stay present with the process and let the work reveal itself over time.

The clearest expression of what happens in the Enso Circle has come not through description, but through the residents’ work itself. The Enso Circle residency catalogs—created at the end of each term—speak quietly through the residents’ artwork. They reflect many individual paths, shaped by time, reflection, and community. You can explore those catalogs here.

If you find yourself here now—between what was and what’s coming—know that you’re not alone. This stage isn’t something to fix or solve. It’s something to tend. I’ve just put together a little video on Advice for Enso Circle Residents – if you become one of the twelve new residents, this will be for you!

Applications for the next Enso Circle open on February 1. If this reflection resonates, you’ll know. There’s no push—just an invitation to notice where you are, and what kind of support might help you stay with what’s becoming.

JOIN THE WAITLIST FOR INFORMATION ON APPLYING

Stay warm, stay brave. Thank you for reading. Ours is important work, and courage grows in company.  ~~ Lyn

LEARN MORE ABOUT REQUIREMENTS AND COST

 

Gifts and Presence

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Gifts I’m Carrying Into the New Year

As the year turns, I find myself less interested in presents and resolutions and more drawn to offerings—the thoughtful, non-material gifts that actually sustain a creative life.

It’s been a year that asked a lot of us. One that felt heavy in ways that were hard to name, where clarity was scarce and holding steady sometimes counted as progress. In moments like that, I find myself returning to the work—not for answers, but for anchoring.

Three of the Seven Messengers, Earthenware and Found Objects, Lyn Belisle, 2025

In the Encanto collection I’m creating for the Taos exhibition, nothing begins as whole. Each piece is assembled from fragments: shards of material, memory, intuition, and story. Individually, they hold meaning. Together, they become something new—a vessel, a guardian, an altar that didn’t exist before their meeting.

That feels like the right metaphor for the year ahead. Not a clean beginning, but a gathering. A year shaped less by starting over than by recognizing what is already in our hands—saved fragments, carried questions, pieces that refused to be discarded.

The work ahead isn’t about inventing something entirely new, but about listening closely enough to hear how the shards and clues want to speak to one another, and trusting that connection itself is a form of creation.

For Robert Rauschenberg, especially in his Combines series, the work was rarely about inventing new imagery from scratch. Instead, it emerged from listening to what disparate materials wanted to say together: a quilt, a newspaper clipping, a photograph, a brushstroke, a found object.

assemblage

Robert Rauschenberg, Monogram, 1955-59 Freestanding combine Oil, printed paper, printed reproductions, metal, wood, rubber heel and tennis ball on canvas, with oil on angora goat and tyre on wooden base mounted on four casters, 106.6 x 160.6 x 163.8 cm

Individually, these elements carried their own histories. But when brought into proximity, they began a conversation that produced meaning neither could hold alone.

He trusted that relationship itself was generative. The act of placing, juxtaposing, and allowing tension or harmony to arise was the creative act. In that sense, the artwork wasn’t imposed—it was discovered through attentive assembly. This concept means the world to me.

Robert Rauschenberg, Odalisk, 1955-1958 Freestanding combine Oil, watercolour, crayon, pastel, paper, fabric, photographs, printed reproductions, newspaper, metal, glass, pillow, wooden post and lamps on wooden structure with stuffed rooster, 210.8 x 64.1 x 68.8 cm

So, about those gifts — one gift I’m carrying forward is permission—to work slowly, to trust that fragments don’t need to explain themselves right away. Shards know how to wait. They reveal their connections in time.

Another is attention, the soft, ongoing, background kind. The listening that notices how one piece leans toward another. How an image answers a question posed months ago. How intuition doesn’t hand us a map, but offers clues – “a secret handshake“.

I’m also carrying continuity. The understanding that the work doesn’t reset on January 1st. We bring our fragments with us—unfinished ideas, saved scraps, half-formed thoughts—and the new year simply offers a fresh surface on which to assemble them. It also gives us a grounded connection to where we have been.

Santa Nina, Encaustic Collage, Lyn Belisle, 2025

And finally, companionship. The knowledge that we never gather shards alone. We are guided by shared histories of making, by other artists (like Rauschenberg) working in the past or in parallel, by unseen hands that have always known how to build meaning from pieces.

  • Permission
  • Attention
  • Continuity
  • Companionship

If there is a gift in these words, it’s this: a reminder that you don’t need to arrive whole to begin the year. Thank goodness! What you carry—your fragments, saved pieces, unfinished ideas, and intuitive longings—is already enough. My hope is that you’ll treat them with the same care we give to cherished shards in the studio, trusting that when the time is right, they will find their place and become something new.

Thanks for your presence, thanks for giving me attention and companionship, and for meeting these thoughts with the intelligence and generosity that only the best readers bring. Happy Holidays!

Teacups: Finding a Personal Voice Inside a Shared Theme

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When artists are invited to participate in a themed exhibition, the first response is often analytical: What is the prompt asking for? But the more meaningful question comes later, and more quietly: What does this theme stir in me? This is where artists stop illustrating ideas and begin translating lived experience into form.

The exhibition One in Eight / The Teacup Project offered a clear conceptual framework. Conceived by GAGA Founder and exhibition designer Sylvia Benitez, herself a breast cancer survivor, the project is grounded not only in art history but in lived experience. The result is not a single visual narrative, but a chorus of distinct voices, each speaking without explanation, yet clearly understood.

Artists were asked to interpret a teacup and saucer in response to breast cancer awareness. The idea draws inspiration from Meret Oppenheim’s fur-lined teacup—an ordinary domestic object transformed into something charged, unsettling, and unforgettable, and notably the first artwork by a woman acquired by the Museum of Modern Art. (Take this link to read the full story – it’s a good one.)

Those were the verbal guidelines. Everything else had to be discovered through looking, listening, and making. That combination has given artists permission to respond intuitively and honestly, whether through symbolic imagery, altered objects, or direct material references.

The challenge is not to illustrate the theme literally, but to recognize which images insist on being made. Some become two-dimension, some three-dimensional. Some are still unfinished.

Teacup Interpretations in progress

For my piece, Held, the teacup became a container—not simply an object, but a state of being.

A woman’s face rests inside the cup, eyes closed, suspended between vulnerability and protection. The numbers one through eight circle the surface, not as a statistic to be explained, but as a persistent presence. They hover and repeat, blurred enough to resist certainty, yet impossible to ignore.

Rather than making a declarative statement about breast cancer, I wanted to explore what it must feel like to live with that knowledge—to carry it privately, bodily, and emotionally.

Encaustic was essential to this expression. Wax softens edges and obscures clarity. It allows images to hover in ambiguity, much like difficult truths themselves. Layers veil and reveal, holding space for complexity rather than resolution. The medium became part of the meaning. Even though I work often in three-dimensional assemblage, this felt right to me.

Material choice plays a powerful role in how artists interpret a shared theme. While I approached the teacup symbolically and atmospherically, other artists responded through direct engagement with the object itself. A real teacup carries familiarity and ritual. It is something we cradle in our hands, associated with warmth, pause, and care. When altered or recontextualized, that comfort can shift into something unsettling.

My friend Barbara took this idea one step further by placing a bra cup on a saucer. The gesture is immediate and unmistakable, collapsing metaphor and reality into a single form. The bra cup echoes the shape of the teacup while bringing the body directly into the conversation. Domestic object and intimate garment meet at the same scale, requiring no explanation. The meaning arrives visually, intuitively, and fully – and fluffy!

This is where non-verbal interpretation shows its strength. One artist may work symbolically, another literally. One may veil meaning in layers and atmosphere; another may present it plainly and directly. Neither approach is more valid than the other. Each is shaped by the artist’s relationship to the subject, their materials, and their personal history. What unites these responses is attentiveness—to the theme, to the body, and to the quiet knowledge we carry as women, caregivers, friends, and witnesses.

One in Eight / The Teacup Project is still in its development stage as a site exhibit, but the depth and immediacy of the responses so far suggest that it is already doing what meaningful exhibitions do best—opening space for reflection, connection, and shared understanding.  When an idea invites this level of engagement before it even takes physical form, it feels less like a proposal and more like an inevitability—one that will, no doubt, soon become a lived and visible exhibition.

In the meantime, you can see the virtual exhibition on the GAGA website on December 29. Brava to Sylvia for inspiring us to find our personal voices inside this truly interesting shared theme! 

The Cane: A Companion on the Artist’s Path

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It’s been two weeks since we boarded the train from Westport to Dublin on our way back home from Mulranny. I’m working on a catalog of our work and adventures, and seeing all of the photographs brings back profound lessons that I learned when I was teaching there.

Our group explored not just making vessels in the studio, but also the wild, windswept beauty of the West Coast—the cliffs, sacred wells, narrow paths, stony beaches, and long flights of stone stairs.

One of our group members walked with a cane, and I worried at first that the rough terrain might keep her from fully joining us. But she surprised us all.

Her cane was not a hindrance. It was a companion. She leaned on it when the path was steep, planted it firmly when the wind blew hard, and carried it with quiet dignity (and smiles).

She never let it define her; instead, she used it as a tool that allowed her to go everywhere everyone else went. Her determination and grace became a lesson for us all.

This memory inspired THE CANE Enso Oracle Card, which holds a message not just for travelers in the world, but for travelers in the studio. In our creative practice, the cane becomes a metaphor. Where might I allow myself the gift of support without apology? What “cane” could help me take the next step? Am I resisting help that would make my path easier?

For artists, a “cane” might look like a mentor’s guidance, a trusted book, a workshop that opens new doors, or even a tool in the studio that simplifies what once felt cumbersome. Sometimes it’s as simple as asking for feedback instead of struggling alone, or letting technology carry some of the load so you can stay focused on the art itself.

Too often we equate independence with strength (I know I do), as if needing help somehow diminishes our creative power. But in truth, the supports we lean on—whether people, tools, or practices—are what allow us to keep climbing, to see new horizons, and to carry on when the path grows rocky.

So perhaps the question to bring into the studio today is this: What is my “cane”? What support could I embrace that would allow me to see farther, work longer, and create with greater ease?

Strength isn’t about going it alone. It’s about knowing when to lean, so we can keep walking.

The Cane
Support • Persistence • Courage

The Cane is not a sign of weakness—it is a trusted companion on the path, a staff for the explorer’s hand, a reminder that accepting support allows us to go farther than we could alone. Whether it steadies our steps on stony paths, helps us climb sacred stairs, or simply gives us the confidence to keep moving, it becomes part of the journey rather than a limitation. In art, as in life, the wise traveler knows when to lean on something trusted.

Upright, The Cane speaks of resilience, resourcefulness, and the grace to accept help without apology.

Reversed, it cautions against mistaking stubborn independence for strength—when we refuse the support we need, we risk exhausting ourselves and cutting short the adventure. The Cane teaches that there is no shame in asking for help, only strength in receiving it. Let it be your symbol of determination, your portable pillar, your license to explore the world at your own pace. Every mark you make—whether with a brush, a pen, or your feet—is richer because you carried on.

Reflection: Where might I allow myself the gift of support without apology? What “cane” could help me take the next step? Am I resisting help that would make my path easier?

Affirmation: I welcome the tools and allies that make my journey possible.

______________________________

Reflection for Your Own Practice

Just as my friend in Ireland leaned on her cane to climb cliffs and cross ancient paths, we as artists can lean on our own “canes” in the studio—supports that help us keep moving, see farther, and continue creating without apology. Ask yourself: What is my cane?

Here are some possibilities:

  • A class you’ve hesitated to take because you felt you “should already know”

  • A piece of equipment or tool you’ve postponed buying, even though it would save time or expand your options

  • The act of asking for feedback from a trusted friend, mentor, or fellow artist

  • Giving yourself permission to hire help for tasks that drain your energy (framing, shipping, photography)

  • Allowing technology—software, apps, even AI—to handle the tedious parts so you can focus on creating

  • Joining (or rejoining) a community or critique group for connection and encouragement

  • Setting boundaries around your studio time and asking others to honor them

  • Revisiting a favorite book, workshop, or teacher who once sparked your growth

  • Saying yes to rest and recovery when your body or spirit needs it

Which of these could be your cane right now? And which others could you name for yourself? I know one of mine would be setting boundaries around my studio time – but it’s hard!!

Your “cane” might also be thought of as a staff, walking stick, compass, anchor, lifeline, bridge, or guide—whatever image reminds you that support is not a weakness but a way forward.

True strength in art, as in life, is not measured by how far we can go alone, but by the wisdom of knowing when—and how—to lean so that the journey continues.

Linda, this card is for you!!♥

 

The Shared Spark: Morphic Resonance and Creative Synchronicity

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Rupert Sheldrake, English biologist, biochemist, and author

One of my all-time favorite books is The Rebirth of Nature: The Greening of Science and God, by Rupert Sheldrake. It inspired this week’s Enso Oracle card, The Shared Spark.

Sheldrake’s theory of morphic resonance proposes that memory and habits are not stored only in brains or genes, but rather in collective fields called morphic fields. These fields carry information across time and space, influencing patterns of behavior and form. According to this idea, once something is learned or created, it becomes easier for others to learn or create something similar—not by imitation, but by tapping into a shared field of information.

This theory helps explain the uncanny phenomenon where two writers, artists, or inventors—working separately and unaware of each other—can arrive at the same idea simultaneously. They may be tuning into the same morphic field, where certain creative patterns or insights are “in the air,” accessible to anyone open to them. In this way, creativity may be less about ownership and more about resonance.

In her book Big Magic (another favorite), Elizabeth Gilbert recounts beginning a novel set in the Amazon rainforest—she was passionate about it, got a publishing deal, did deep research… then life pulled her away. After nearly two years, when she tried to return, the inspiration was gone. Then she met Ann Patchett, who revealed that she was writing a strikingly similar novel, also set in the Amazon—with no awareness of Elizabeth’s project. The idea… “migrated” to the mind of her friend and fellow writer, Patchett, where it grew into that author’s bestselling novel set in the Amazon jungle, State of Wonder.

Think about this : What if the creative idea that arrives unbidden—just as someone else is working on the same thing—comes not from your mind alone, but from a deeper field we all share? Jung called it the collective unconscious, a psychic ocean of universal symbols (archetypes) and instincts. Rupert Sheldrake, in The Rebirth of Nature, offers a complementary vision: that ideas and forms can resonate across individuals through invisible morphic fields.

The Shared Spark oracle card lives at the intersection of these two ideas—a visual embodiment of the moment when something ancient and collective sparks simultaneously in two separate souls.

The Shared Spark
aka The Echo Field

Keywords: Synchronicity, resonance, collective insight, unseen connection, simultaneous inspiration

Meaning:
When The Shared Spark appears, it reminds you that ideas do not exist in isolation. You are tapping into something larger—a morphic field of thought, memory, and form that transcends location and time. Whether you’re mid-project or just beginning, this card affirms that what you’re creating is part of a greater, invisible dialogue. Others may be receiving similar sparks right now—not because of imitation, but because you are attuned to the same current. Celebrate the wonder of this resonance. It means you’re exactly where you need to be.

In a reversed position, The Shared Spark invites you to release possessiveness or fear that someone else “got there first.” Comparison and self-doubt can cloud your unique contribution. Remember, even if the concept is shared, your expression is singular. Trust that your voice brings something irreplaceable to the field.

Reflection Questions:

  • Where have I experienced a creative idea that felt strangely universal?
  • How can I honor synchronicity without falling into comparison?
  • What unique perspective do I bring to a commonly held insight?

Affirmation:
“I am part of a greater field of vision. What moves through me is shared, but never duplicated.”

MORE ABOUT THIS

I had a note about this very subject last week from my friend and fellow artist and writer, Melanie Childress Reuter whose Made for Grace Arts lives on Substack. She wrote, “When you see my post on Sunday which I wrote nearly two weeks ago, you will wonder how in the world our brains got intertwined. My piece starts out with a story of a lady who keeps going to Michaels to buy supplies for the next latest/greatest. I promise I’m not copying you – lol!!!” Melanie is a master of practical spirituality – you’ll enjoy what she writes.

She referenced both my recent Oracle cards, The Shiny Object and The Hump. We’ve all experienced these things – that’s why these Enso Oracle cards are such a joy to invent. They are based on our real and messy and exhilarating and never-enough-time creative lives.

The Shape of What We Hold

Lately, as you may know, I’ve found myself deeply drawn to the form of the vessel—small boats, pods, bowls, bundles. And I’m not alone. In recent months, I’ve noticed artists, writers, and makers across disciplines turning toward vessels as symbols and structures—sometimes consciously, often intuitively. It’s as if the world is asking us to hold, carry, and contain something tender, transitional, and vital.

According to Rupert Sheldrake, this is no coincidence. When a form or idea begins to emerge in multiple places at once, it may be a sign of morphic resonance in motion—a shared energetic field where meaning is coalescing and transmitting itself through the minds and hands of many. Perhaps the vessel is not just a form, but a frequency.

Why now? Maybe because we are navigating uncertain waters, and the act of making a vessel—literal or symbolic—is a way of reclaiming our ability to gather, protect, and offer. It’s not just about what the vessel is. It’s about what it makes space for.

Which brings me to something I’m especially excited about:

My new online course, Vessels and Spirit Ships, will launch in just a few days on my Teachable site. This project has been in the works for nearly a year, and it’s full of all the things I’ve been exploring—wax, thread, paper, memory, metaphor, and mystery. If The Shared Spark speaks to you, I think this class will too.

Stay tuned. The tide is rising.

PS. If you’d like to take a look at Rupert Sheldrake’s book, The Rebirth of Nature: The Greening of Science and God, you can find it here on Google Books.

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 ♥

An Artist of Influence: Alejandra Almuelle

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Alejandra Almuelle

You likely have favorite artists who have influenced your work over the years, or perhaps their work differs from yours in significant ways but you are drawn to it nevertheless. Alejandra Almuelle is one of those for me in both respects.

I met Alejandra at least 15 years ago at the annual Texas Clay Festival in Gruene and bought this little bowl from her. It has a design of a flying fish – so simple, small, and elegant.

We talked for quite a while and there was a compelling quality to her work that stayed with me. I visited her website recently and was just transported with the sculptures she has created over the last decade.

Alejandra Almuelle: From Her Website

Alejandra Almuelle was born in Arequipa, Peru. She spent few years in Pizac in the Sacred Valley of Cuzco, a center for ceramic making. Peru is a country in which the abundance of clay has made this medium a language of artistic expression. Clay is its own idiom, and being there, she began to speak it. After she moved to Austin, she started working with clay. Addressing the functionality of the medium as well as its
sculptural expression has been equally important for her. She has participated in art fairs, galleries and museums with both pottery and sculpture.’

Alejandra Almuelle

Alejandra is a brilliant, incredibly prolific clay sculptor and has exhibited in numerous galleries – read this comment from the review of her show called “Silent Narrative of Things” at Dimension Gallery in Austin in 2017:

“…Because what Almuelle has done is turned Dimension Gallery into what we can’t help but perceive as a sacred space. Not some typical “sacred space” festooned with the gimcrackery of more common religions, though. Rather, a hidden alcove redolent of ancient pagan mysteries, of deep Jungian undercurrents, with sculptures of the artist’s interpretation of the Three Fates all texturally complex against the entrance wall; with a series of hollow and pristinely white figures atop a field of salt on a far table; with sculpted hands set among piled patterns of spice – cinnamon, turmeric, pepper, and more – on a closer surface; with a diverse array of rough porcelain needles literally stitching yarn-as-bloodlines into the very concrete of the gallery’s cemented verticals.”

Wow.

Here is a series of pieces from that exhibit, and you can see all of her work here on her website.

Alejandra Almuelle

About the seven works above, she says, “When I began this series, I was affected by the significance and probable implications of the political situation. Many questions started to come as the work emerged. Questions created more questions in my attempt to answer them. “Seven”, which is the first of the series expresses that state of mind. . .Each of these human-shaped figures are pierced, revealing the interior space through orifices and openings as manifesting the permeable nature of the self. A self that is not solid, fixed or contained.”

Alejandra Almuelle

Her depth and dedication to her craft and her art are awe-inspiring.

Alejandra Almuelle

Recently, I acquired another one of Alejandra’s artworks from a series that she calls “Ayas.” Here it is sitting on the desk at my kitchen door where I see it every morning:

This is how she describes the Ayas: “Aya is not only a personal reference but a tribute as well to Pre-Columbian Mayan ceramic dolls. In Japanese, “aya” means colorful and beautiful. In Arabic, it means miracle, sign, and verse. In Hebrew, it refers to flight or birds, and in Turkish, “aya” means a source of abundance and creativity. There is also an African Adinkra symbol called “aya” represented by a fern which symbolizes endurance and resourcefulness.”

I hope you enjoy being inspired by Alejandra’s work as much as I do. She will be at the 2024 Texas Clay Festival in Gruene – I always look forward to that event!

When we discover artists whose breathtaking work makes us shiver with exhilaration, it’s worth sharing.

Thanks for reading!

Alejandra Almuelle

 

Quicksilver: verse and vision

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collage

Quicksilver: Terlingua Cemetery, Lyn Belisle

What an extraordinary experience to have a poet look at your work and tell its hidden story back to you with empathy and intuition! Maggie Fitch – friend, potter, poet – just gave me that great honor. You’ll love the poem .. read on.

Here’s how it happened.

One of my artworks is being exhibited in the current GAGA show at the San Antonio Art League + Museum. It is titled Quicksilver: Terlingua Cemetry. I created this fiber art collage (above) as a response to a recent visit to the cemetery in Terlingua just outside Big Bend. The work is comprised of transferred photos on fabric, stitching, fabric scraps, and found objects on stretched canvas. It is 36″ long.

Collage back story: The Chisos Mining Company, was established in 1903 at Terlingua, and during the next three decades became one of the nation’s leading producers of quicksilver (mercury from cinnabar ore). The Terlingua cemetery, iconic and eerie, is a reminder of the miners who died there from mercury poisoning. The average time spent in the mine before mercury poisoning began affecting them was less than 5 years. The men who got sick were happy to have a job for pennies a day, all the while unaware of the horrific nature of their own impending death.

So, Maggie was attending a poetry workshop group at the Art League last week, and their focus was to write an ekphrastic poem, which is an intense poetic description of a  a work of art, and to chose a piece from the exhibition Through the imaginative act of narrating and reflecting on the “action” of the artwork, the poet may amplify and expand its meaning.

Maggie chose to study my piece and looked at it so carefully that she discovered a story that amazed me. These were the first two lines of her poem:

“See here
printed in plain sight a plot of prickly crosses . . .”

She contemplated the details she saw – torn newspaper clippings sewn to tattered fabric, old images of a miner, transferred onto cloth, a frayed portrait of a native child, rusty items and found objects . . .

She saw more than just the history of the place – she felt what it must have been like to be there, perhaps on an August day exactly 100 years ago . . .

She tells us through her poem what to look for, what we can see if we look past the individual scraps and shards to the whole concept of place in time . . .

Read Maggie’s entire poem, below, read it slowly, and I think you will feel how visual art and poetic verse are powerful companions.

Ekphrastic poem by Maggie Fitch
based on a fiber collage by Lyn Belisle:
Quicksilver: Terlingua Cemetery

See here

printed in plain sight a plot of prickly crosses
seen here three ways differently still all the same
remarking the folly of passers-by intending
to go somewhere better
away from a screaming orange sky
then befuddled in twilight’s turquoise caresses
charring intentions into crusty black embers
blown over the graves of those
passing through to somewhere else

See here

stitched little purses of tattered intentions
that should have been quicksilver but not quick enough
passing through with his donkey in the desert that day
the miner gave the young girl a shawl
kindly wrapping her shoulders up warmly that night
she gave him a colorful brand-new bandana
around his neck in the desert that day
passing through with his donkey
enchanted instead by a mouth full of tumbleweed

See here

are the artifacts of tattered intentions
stitched little purses made from what is left
of the shawl and bandana and maybe a donkey’s tooth
shadows of the young girl
and the miner who stayed
enthralled by the spectrum
in Terlingua they stayed
embedded in Quicksilver

See?

This poem gives me shivers – it’s as if Maggie was there in Terlingua that day, watching, seeing it all unfold. It’s beautiful and haunting. I am transported by lines like:

“…away from a screaming orange sky
then befuddled in twilight’s turquoise caresses
charring intentions into crusty black embers
blown over the graves of those
passing through to somewhere else . . .”

Below is a photo of Maggie’s original poem next to the collage she created in the Visual Verses group which is facilitated by poet and artist Marcia Roberts. This group meets once a month at the San Antonio Art League. (If you are interested in learning more about this group, please email Marcia.)

As I said at the start of this post, I told you that Maggie is also and artist who tells stories in clay. Here is an example of Maggie’s own work:

If I were a poet, I would love to look at these two pieces and write an ekphrastic poem about who they are and what their story is. Perhaps the fellow on the right was a miner passing through Terlingua searching for his long-lost daughter?? . . . . .maybe??? See???

Thank you, Maggie, for a wonderful poem. I learned so much. ♥