Category Archives: thoughts and opinions

Building a Portrait

Posted on by
22

An Encaustic Collage of Sam Takeuchi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What elements here represent Sam’s world?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Story for Women’s History Month

Posted on by
35

If you’ve traveled along with me on my artist journey for a while, you know about my fascination with images of human faces. I return again and again to the Library of Congress and Flickr Commons to examine the expressions of people who lived ordinary and extraordinary lives, whose faces were captured in the moment with tintype photographs and sepia processes.

If a face is particularly striking, I save it to a special folder to use in my work – this one, for example, is an encaustic collage I did in 2015 featuring the mesmerizing image of an Australian World War One soldier, probably taken in 1917:

There are hundreds of thousands of photographs to explore on these sites. I generally limit my search to “portraits,” often of women or children like those taken by Lewis Hine.

So, on with the story – here is a photographic portrait that literally took my breath away when I found it in the archives of The Commons about eight years ago:

I had no idea who she was, but researched her name and found that Susie King Taylor served more than three years as nurse with the 33rd U.S. Colored Troops Infantry Regiment during the American Civil War. She also taught children and adults to read while serving with the regiment. You can read more of the story here.

Her portrait inspired this encaustic collage.

Susie
Encaustic Collage, 2021
by Lyn Belisle

_____________

Description: This encaustic collage honors Susie King Taylor, the first Black Army nurse during the Civil War. I discovered her photograph in the public archives of The Commons, where her presence immediately caught my attention. As I learned more about her life, I was deeply moved by her courage and service tending soldiers of the 33rd United States Colored Infantry Regiment. In this piece, layers of encaustic wax, vintage text, gauze, and horsehair evoke both the fragility and resilience of that moment in history. The materials reference the field conditions of wartime care while honoring the strength and dignity reflected in Taylor’s portrait. Creating this work became a way of acknowledging a remarkable woman whose story deserves to be remembered and shared.

______________

I never offered this work for sale (it just didn’t seem right),although I wrote a blog post about her in 2021.Susie has been on a shelf in my studio for the last four years. I also ordered the book that Susie King Taylor wrote in 1902 called Reminiscences of My Life in Camp with the 33d United States Colored Troops to learn more about her experiences.

If that had been the end of the story, it would have been enough just to know about this remarkable woman.  But wait – there’s more!!

Recently, I came across Susie’s book about her life in the Civil War, and was thinking about her when an email came in from the contact form on my website:

“Good Afternoon, Ms. Belisle. I am Hermina Glass-Hill the founder of the Susie King Taylor Gullah Geechee Museum in Midway, GA – Mrs. King’s hometown. I came across your wonderful artwork that includes a likeness of her. I would like to know if it is for sale. The museum has a collection of artwork in which she is the focus. I would be honored to hear from you. Respectfully Yours, Hermina”

Hermina Glass-Hill, MHP
Executive Director, Historian, Environmental Scholar-Activist

Susie King Taylor Women’s Institute and Ecology Center
Midway, Georgia

_____________________________________

I was stunned at the synchronicity of the timing. After four years of living in my studio, this is where Susie belonged! I wrote back,

Dear Hermina,

This is such a wonderful letter and a strange coincidence. Today I was replacing some books on my studio bookshelf and one of these was My Life in Camp. I was looking at it and thinking about Susie King Taylor and her remarkable story – and then came your letter!

I’m attaching an image of the encaustic collage I did of her in 2020. Here is an excerpt from an article that I wrote for the Winter Issue of Encaustic Arts Magazine that year which explains how I work with historic images and how that image of Susie King Taylor just grabbed me when I saw it in a library archive.

It would be my honor to make a gift the original work to the Susie King Taylor Gullah Geechee Museum. You are doing a magnificent job of preserving and celebrating the memory and accomplishments of this remarkable woman.

___________________________________________

Hermina answered: Wow! Thank you for connecting with me so quickly. Isn’t it amazing that out all the things that could possibly happen in the universe that two people could connect thoughts like this. My heart is filled with so much gratitude for your kindness and generosity.

With joy, I prepared the artwork for shipping to send Susie on her journey home to the Institute that bears her name and to Hermina, its founder.

We continue to email, and I continue to explore the Institute’s website and learn even more about this remarkable woman – here is an excerpt about Susie’s early education:

“I was born under the slave law in Georgia, in 1848, and was brought up by my grandmother in Savannah. There were three of us with her, my younger sister and brother. My brother and I being the two eldest, we were sent to a friend of my grandmother, Mrs. Woodhouse, a widow, to learn to read and write. She was a free woman and lived on Bay Lane, between Habersham and Price streets, about half a mile from my house. We went every day about nine o’clock, with our books wrapped in paper to prevent the police or white persons from seeing them.” 

Even as a child, Susie understood that knowledge was power—and that learning carried risk. The simple act of carrying books wrapped in paper so they would not be seen speaks volumes about the courage that shaped her life. Education, healing, and service would become the threads that wove through her extraordinary story.

When I read passages like this, I feel even more grateful that her portrait found its way into my studio all those years ago. Sometimes an image calls to us before we understand why. Something in the gaze, the posture, the quiet dignity of the person reaches across time and asks to be seen again.

And sometimes it takes years for that story to unfold.

What moves me most about this experience is not just Susie King Taylor’s bravery—though that alone is remarkable. It is also the intuition that guided Hermina Glass-Hill to reach out across the digital world to a stranger who had once felt the same pull toward Susie’s story. Hermina has devoted her life to preserving the history and legacy of the Gullah Geechee people and of Susie King Taylor in particular. Something led her to search for images, to follow a trail, and eventually to my website.

That kind of intuitive curiosity is something artists understand well.

We follow threads that we cannot fully explain. We collect images, fragments, and stories. We assemble them in our studios without knowing where they may eventually belong. And sometimes—if we are fortunate—those pieces find their way back to the places where they can speak most clearly.

Sending this artwork to the Susie King Taylor Women’s Institute and Ecology Center feels less like giving something away and more like completing a circle. The portrait that once spoke to me in an archive will now live in a place dedicated to honoring her life and educating future generations.

Art has a quiet but powerful way of creating these connections.

A photograph taken more than a century ago.
An artist working in wax and collage.
A historian preserving a legacy in coastal Georgia.
An email arriving at just the right moment.

It reminds me that when we make art from the heart—and when we share it openly—we never really know where it might travel or whose story it might help tell.

Sometimes a face in an archive is not just an image waiting to be discovered.

Sometimes it is a messenger.

And sometimes, if we listen closely enough, it finds its way home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

From Studio to Printed Page: The Vessel Alchemy Catalog

Posted on by
6

The space inside the vessel
is not absence —
it is invitation.

I am genuinely delighted to share this catalog of my students’ work from last week’s Vessel Alchemy workshops. Each time I teach, I am reminded that learning moves in both directions. My students bring courage, curiosity, humor, tenderness, and insight to the table — and I leave each session changed by what they discover.

What follows in this post are a few reflections and observations about this collection of vessels — forms that began as simple structures and became layered, personal, and deeply expressive works. At the end of this post, you’ll find a link to view the complete catalog as a flipbook, where you can explore the entire collection in sequence.

First observation: When I first began teaching vessel workshops in Ireland three years ago, I noticed a shift in purpose. Students were not simply building forms that could hold something — they were building forms that already held something. The vessels were not empty containers waiting to be filled; they arrived filled. Words were tucked into scrolls. Fragments of memory were embedded in plaster. A scrap of handwriting, a small relic, a suggestion of something once carried — each vessel became a small assemblage, a layered narrative.

The vessel, in other words, became less about function and more about meaning. It became a site of gathering — of memory, of language, of intention. Even the simplest forms carried interior lives. You can see so much of this is our new catalog for the Vessels Alchemy class.

Secondly, when I began assembling the catalog, I took a small liberty. As I laid out the pages and lived with each photograph, I found myself responding to the pieces as a viewer as well as a teacher. So I gave each vessel a title — and three words that, to my eye, seemed to describe its spirit. I claimed this as a prerogative of the teacher :). Not to define the work, but to honor how it spoke to me.

It felt fitting. If vessels can hold memory and meaning, they can also hold interpretation.

As you turn the pages of the catalog, I hope you find sparks of inspiration not just for making vessels, but for discovering what creativity means in all its many forms — and that this journey invites you into your own act of making, curious and wholehearted.

CATALOG LINK

So many thanks to the students for sharing their narratives and creative skills!

♥

The Language of Holding: Student Work from the Workshop

Posted on by
12

This is Part One of a two-part reflection on our weekend workshop,  Vessel Alchemy: Tactile Poems in Fiber, Paper, Word, Light. Next week, I’ll share more vessels — and more of the words they are quietly holding.

This past weekend weekend, as I walked around the Droste Studio at UTSA/SW watching the students work, I found myself truly astonished.

Not just at the craftsmanship — though there was plenty of that. Careful joins. Thoughtful armatures. Fibers handled with restraint. Plaster edges left raw but intentional. Stitches placed where they mattered. Nothing hurried. Nothing ornamental without purpose.

What moved me even more deeply was the respect for the materials. These students did not force sticks to behave unnaturally. They allowed cheesecloth to fray. They let paper tear along its own logic. They treated wax, fiber, wood, and found objects as collaborators rather than supplies. There is a joy in that kind of making.

But what truly stopped me was their understanding of language.

  • They understood — instinctively — that words do not merely decorate a vessel.
    They define it.
    They anchor it.
    They release it.

They grasped that words can be embedded like relics, stitched like mending, burned like memory, or inscribed along the interior curve of a bowl. They understood that a vessel does not simply hold words — it is shaped by them.

Here are three examples that I’ve tried to describe with words that mean more than size, shape, and color:

The Interior Script: A Bowl That Remembers

One student (Logan) lined the inside of his vessel with concentric, handwritten text. The words spiral inward, like thought itself. Over this interior landscape rests a simple lattice of thin wooden sticks, bound gently with gray thread — a structure that feels protective, almost like ribs. Actually, it cradles a second structure that fits inside this one like a Russian doll! I’ll show you that picture later.

The vessel invokes words like:

  • remember
    contain
    listen
    underneath
    crossing

The spiral script suggests that meaning accumulates over time, layer upon layer, sentence upon sentence. The wooden lattice feels like a quiet restraint — or perhaps a trellis. The words are both sheltered and structured. The vessel becomes a meditation on interior life. Here is the vessel with its nested second vessel – the scrip becomes secret language. The second vessel is lined with gold joss paper. Breathtaking!

The Furrowed Edge: A Vessel of Shelter and Weather

Another student (Carol) created a bowl with torn, irregular edges, rimmed in dark fiber that reads almost like char or earth. Across its opening stretches a small bundle of paper and twigs — bound, weathered, fragile.

This vessel calls forth words like:

  • weathered
    threshold
    endurance
    tenderness
    scar

The torn plaster edge feels vulnerable but deliberate. The dark fiber suggests something elemental — soil, ash, hair, memory. Can you guess what it is? The bound paper at the top feels like a message carried across a crossing. It is not pristine. It is honest. The vessel speaks of protection that has already been tested.

Two Vessels: What Opens / What Remains

These are two vessels created by Dawn, who made a total of five beautiful containers for her words and poems during the two days we were together.

The Luminous Vessel (Left)

This one feels like a breath held and then released.

It evokes:

  • revelation
    offering
    interior light
    vulnerability
    threshold
    secret treasure

There is something tender about its torn white rim. The glowing interior suggests not wealth, but illumination — the kind of light discovered only after something cracks open. The twig-bound element across the top feels less like restraint and more like a blessing.

This vessel whispers:
What is hidden is not lost.
What is broken may be luminous.

The Earth Vessel (Right)

This one feels grounded, sedimentary, layered.

It evokes:

  • memory
    accumulation
    archive
    weathered
    gathered fragments
    ancestral
    talisman
    burial
    keeping
    endurance

The interior reads almost like an excavation — objects embedded, tucked, remembered. The textures feel archaeological. The upright slip of paper suggests a marker, a naming, a quiet declaration among relics.

This vessel’s words are:
Nothing is wasted.
What has been lived becomes structure.

Together

As a pair, they evoke:

light and earth
reveal and retain
blessing and burial
opening and holding
chapter and echo
same story, different hour

They feel like two movements in a single composition — one speaking of illumination, the other of preservation.

______________________________________________________

A final note for this first part – what I saw in these works was not just technique. It was comprehension.

The students understood that when we write inside a vessel, we are mapping an interior. When we bind sticks across an opening, we are negotiating protection and permeability. When we leave an edge torn, we are honoring imperfection rather than correcting it.

They were not simply making objects. They were making language visible. Visible poetry.

And maybe that is what we are always doing — whether with plaster or paper, ink or fiber. We are shaping containers for what matters. We are giving our unspoken words somewhere to rest.

Let’s hope we continue to make vessels that hold what needs holding — and release what no longer does. More to come next week!

Encantos: When the Work Speaks Back

Posted on by
14

I just returned home from Taos and the opening of our Encantos Exhibition at the Taos Ceramics Center with fellow artists Linda Manning and Virginia and Andy Bally.

I’m still processing the experience. There’s a particular kind of moment at an exhibition opening that feels both exhilarating and disorienting—the moment when the work leaves your hands and begins its own conversations.

At the opening, that moment arrived quickly and unexpectedly. Within a short time, all four of the Santa Niña collages (below) had sold.

These were not the pieces I assumed would lead the way. I loved them, of course—but I hadn’t predicted they would be the first to be claimed. It felt less like a market response and more like recognition, as if those works had been waiting for the right room, the right eyes, the right moment to step forward.

That surprise relaxed me. It loosened and changed my expectations and opened me to the evening in a different way.

What followed was not just an opening, but a long, layered exchange—one conversation flowing into another. People asked thoughtful questions about symbolism, materials, saints and fragments, memory and devotion. I spoke about the work more than I usually do, and perhaps more openly. But just as important, I listened. I asked others about their work—their processes, their obsessions, the stories that quietly fuel what they make. And I learned so much.

There’s a misconception that openings are about standing beside your work and explaining it, as if clarity were the goal. But what struck me that night was how much richer the experience became when explanation turned into dialogue.

When I asked, “What are you working on?” or “What draws you to this?” the room shifted.

  • Artists spoke about uncertainty, about being mid-question, about following symbols they didn’t yet fully understand.
  • Two of my workshops students talked about the excitement of their new directions since we all worked together.
  • Collectors shared what they live with, what they notice over time, what stays with them years after a piece comes home.
  • An actor who “moved to Taos 55 years ago in the great hippie migration” shared with me his work on Samuel Beckett’s plays.
  • And my new friend, Japanese/American architect and master woodworker, Sam Takeuchi came up from Santa Fe to talk about portraits.

It reminded me that exhibitions aren’t endpoints—they’re crossings.

Still, I won’t pretend that speaking about one’s work comes easily. There is something inherently vulnerable about explaining art that is born from intuition, memory, and personal myth. Much of my work emerges before I have language for it. The words come later—sometimes much later. Standing in front of people and trying to translate that interior process can feel awkward, even frightening. There’s always the fear of saying too much, or not enough. Or sounding pretentious or too woo-woo.

But then something extraordinary happens. Someone listens closely. Someone nods. Someone offers a reflection that mirrors back what you were reaching for—sometimes in language clearer than your own. And in that moment, the work feels understood not because it’s been decoded, but because it’s been met.

What Encantos offered me was a renewed trust in that exchange. Trust that the work carries more than I consciously put into it. Trust that certain pieces know where they belong Trust that conversation—real conversation—is part of the creative process, not a distraction from it.

I left the opening feeling deeply grateful: for the collectors who welcomed the Santa Niñas into their homes; for the artists whose generosity and curiosity enriched the evening; for the reminder that meaning doesn’t arrive fully formed in the studio.It completes itself in relationship—through artists like Andre and Virginia Bally and Linda Manning, whose thoughtful, generous work completed the Encantos cosmology and transformed the exhibition into a shared experience.

Encantos, after all, is about enchantment—not as spectacle, but as recognition. The moment when something familiar suddenly reveals depth. The feeling that a fragment holds a story larger than itself—and that night, I understood that Encantos was not an ending, but a threshold toward a new direction.

Thanks for reading! 

Teacups: Finding a Personal Voice Inside a Shared Theme

Posted on by
4

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! 

Returning to the Well: Three Paths for the Artist’s Spirit

Posted on by
5

Photo by Melanie Childress Reuter at great peril to herself!

When our group traveled to Ireland, we visited several sacred wells. These were not simply places to gather water—they were wells of memory and mystery, worn smooth by centuries of seekers leaving tokens, prayers, and wishes. They grew in my imagination as metaphors for the multiple currents that give rise to art.

Our friend Melanie, who knew so much about these holy places, came prepared with small bottles—one for each of us—to collect water from St. Brendan’s well. Her thoughtful, reverent gesture reminded me that the experience of a well is both shared and deeply personal.

At first, I thought there would be only ONE oracle card named The Well. But no matter how much I tried to get around it, I kept hearing three distinct voices beneath that singular image, each one layered deeper than the last.

So The Well became a series of three separate cards: The First Well, The Second Well, and The Third Well. Here’s the short version.

  • The First Well — The Gathering Place (connection and community)

  • The Second Well — The Sacred Source (ritual and renewal)

  • The Third Well — The Hidden Depths (archetypes and unconscious)

Together and separately, these three form a layered invitation to explore how creativity flows: through community, through pilgrimage and blessing, and deep into the hidden currents of collective imagination.

Here are the three separate Enso Oracle Cards: The First Well, The Second Well, and The Third Well. Each carries its own presence and focus, just as each well in Ireland revealed a different kind of truth.

I’m sharing them here with you so you can see how they speak to you in image as well as in words.

Every artists has a need to visit one of these metaphoric wells for different reasons and at different times – this was another lesson I learned in Ireland as part of our group.

The First Well — The Gathering Place

Keywords: Community • Exchange • Support • Shared Wisdom

At the First Well, we meet each other with open vessels. This is the place of friendship, collaboration, and replenishment through shared ideas and presence.

Upright, it calls you to lean into community — to gather, to teach, to listen, and to remember that no artist creates in isolation.

Reversed, it asks: are you withholding your gifts, or resisting the support of others out of pride or fear? The well reminds us that water flows most freely when we pour into one another.

Reflection: Who nourishes me — and how can I offer nourishment in return?

Affirmation: I drink deeply of community and allow myself to be replenished by shared wisdom.

When you draw this card: You may need to seek out or organize a group of like-minded people. Consider joining a class, scheduling a studio visit, or reaching out to a trusted peer. The First Well suggests that connection itself is the medicine you seek.

The Second Well — The Sacred Source

Keywords: Blessing • Inspiration • Pilgrimage • Devotion

The Second Well is not just water, but water made sacred through reverence. It is the place of ritual, of intentional return, of renewal.

Upright, it calls you to mark your practice as sacred, to honor your creative path as pilgrimage, and to receive inspiration as blessing.

Reversed, it warns against neglecting the rituals that nourish you, or treating inspiration as something to be demanded instead of received with humility. This well offers more when approached with respect.

Reflection: What rituals and sacred pauses keep my practice alive?

Affirmation: I honor my path as sacred, and each return to the source blesses me anew.

When you draw this card: You may be called to slow down and honor your process as ritual. Light a candle, dedicate your work with gratitude, or make a small pilgrimage — to a gallery, a sacred site, or even a favorite place in nature. The Second Well reminds you that renewal comes when you approach creativity with reverence.

The Third Well — The Hidden Depths

Keywords: Depth • Archetypes • Dreams • Collective Unconscious

The Third Well lies in shadow, but its depths shimmer with infinite reflection.

Upright, it asks you to journey inward, to engage with dreams, symbols, and archetypes that rise from the Collective Unconscious. Here is mystery, intuition, and primal connection.

Reversed, it cautions against being lost in shadow — drowning in illusion, fear, or over-analysis. Depth is a gift only when balanced with air and light. The Third Well invites courage to see what is hidden and return with wisdom.

Reflection: What symbols and stories are rising from my depths, and how do they shape my path?

Affirmation: I trust the depths of my inner well to reveal truths that connect me to all humanity.

When you draw this card: You may need to look beneath the surface of your work. Keep a dream journal, explore mythology, or allow symbols and images to emerge without judgment. The Third Well reminds you that the unconscious holds treasures that, once surfaced, will resonate far beyond yourself.

______________________________________________________________

I know that this is a long and rather complex post, but here are three everyday examples that might help explain how each of these metaphoric (and sometimes actual) “wells” serves a different purpose:

The First Well — The Gathering Place

  • An artist is feeling isolated in their studio, unsure if their work has meaning. Drawing this card suggests it’s time to seek connection — perhaps by joining a critique group, organizing a studio visit, or even hosting a casual coffee with creative friends. The First Well reminds them that inspiration often flows more freely in conversation and shared presence than in solitude.

The Second Well — The Sacred Source

  • A painter finds their practice has become mechanical, more about deadlines than devotion. When this card appears, it is an invitation to pause and return to ritual — lighting a candle before working, dedicating the day’s effort with gratitude, or making a small pilgrimage (to a gallery, a natural site, or a remembered place) to refresh their spirit. The Second Well signals that the creative path is sacred, and renewal will come when it’s approached with reverence.

The Third Well — The Hidden Depths

  • A writer is circling the surface of their ideas, producing technically fine work but sensing something deeper is missing. Drawing this card suggests it’s time to descend inward — journaling dreams, meditating, or exploring myth and archetype to uncover the symbols beneath their stories. The Third Well reminds them that art rooted in the unconscious carries a power that resonates universally, even if it feels mysterious at first.

Each well, then, marks a different kind of replenishment:

  • First Well: external support through people.

  • Second Well: spiritual renewal through reverence.

  • Third Well: deep symbolic truth through the unconscious.

__________________________________________________

But here’s the best part — you don’t have to draw a card to know when it’s time to visit The Well. A card is a beautiful reminder, and you can always return to these descriptions, but the truth is, we all carry an inner knowing. We recognize when we’re thirsty for community, when we need to pause for renewal, or when it’s time to journey into our own depths. The wells are always there, waiting — and we already know the way to them.

 

 

The Cane: A Companion on the Artist’s Path

Posted on by
19

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 Pause: Take a moment. Let it be enough

Posted on by
18

This is the next in a series of summer posts using the in-progress Enso Circle oracle cards that I’m working on to help myself keep consistently grounded in studio practice and creative community. Thanks for being part of that. Read on.

In the wake of the recent floods here in Texas, we find ourselves reeling not only with grief, but with a sense of helplessness. As artists, our instinct is often to respond: to create, to express, to offer solace through our work. We feel the call to stay on the path, to keep moving forward, to do something with our hands that might help mend the world.

But there are moments when even that noble impulse must yield to something deeper—stillness. Not from a lack of inspiration or purpose, but from a need to let the weight of the world settle gently into our hearts without resistance. To let silence be a kind of medicine.

This is not a surrender. It’s a sacred pause—a conscious act of rest and reflection that allows us to absorb what we need before we continue on with renewed meaning and strength. We do not stop because we are lost—we pause because we are listening.

This another early Enso Oracle card that I created several months ago, but it seems really appropriate right now.

THE PAUSE

The Pause – When Stillness Is the Bravest Choice

Keywords: Stillness · Restoration · Listening · Grace

Interpretation (Upright):
The Pause arrives not as an absence, but as a presence—quiet, whole, and necessary. It invites you to step away from motion, not because you are uninspired, but because your spirit knows when to rest. Like a hush between notes in music, this moment of stillness holds space for something sacred: integration, healing, and gentle awareness. In the midst of life’s turbulence, this card reminds you that you are allowed to stop. To be. To listen. Rest is not retreat—it is preparation. In the pause, your deeper knowing rises. Let it.

Interpretation (Reversed):
When reversed, The Pause may reveal a deep discomfort with stillness—an inner urgency to do something, especially in times of sorrow or upheaval. You may feel desperate to help, to fix, to create meaning out of heartbreak. But this impulse, though noble, can become a way of avoiding your own need to rest and receive. Not every response must be immediate. This card asks you to allow space for presence before action. Choose grace over urgency. Trust that your quiet awareness now will shape deeper, more meaningful offerings later.

Reflection Questions:

  • When was the last time you truly allowed yourself to be still?
  • What emotions or insights have you been too busy to feel?
  • What would it mean to pause—not out of weakness, but out of wisdom?

Affirmation:
I honor the stillness between moments. In rest, I restore my light.

What happens after the Pause?

You don’t simply go back to work. You go forward—with a steadier heart, clearer eyes, and a deeper sense of intention. The stillness doesn’t erase grief or uncertainty, but it softens the way you carry them. You may begin again slowly. Gently. You may write one word, make one mark, sweep your studio floor, or sit beside your worktable and simply breathe. That is enough.

The Pause is not a break from your path—it is a sacred moment within it.

Things to think about when you need to pause:

  • I don’t need to solve everything right now
  • This moment is enough—I am safe to just be.
  • Stillness is not emptiness—it is where I gather strength.

Previous Enso Circle oracle card posts:

THE CRACKED CUP

THE SHINY OBJECT

THE HUMP

THE WANDERER

The Cracked Cup: Holding Loss with Reverence

Posted on by
20

This week, as floods have devastated parts of Texas, I have felt a deep ache settle in my chest. So many lives lost—families shattered, futures rewritten in a single rising tide. There is no mending of such losses, only the sacred act of holding space for them.

It was with this sorrow that I turned to The Cracked Cup, one of the first cards I created  in the Enso Oracle deck. The cup, once whole, now bears a fracture that cannot be hidden. Yet it still holds meaning, still carries essence. A cracked vessel is a reminder that something precious was once contained, and though altered, its story is not erased.

Loss connects us. Not because we can understand it fully—but because we recognize its shape. We have all carried our own cracked cups, fragile with memory and longing. And when we witness loss in others—especially such heartbreaking, public loss—we may feel helpless. But if we acknowledge it, if we name it, if we allow it to soften us rather than harden us, then something sacred can begin to form.

Grief shared is grief witnessed. In honoring the cracks, we honor the love that came before them.

The Cracked Cup

Keywords: Imperfection, Vulnerability, Beauty in the Broken, Holding What You Can

Guidebook Entry:
The Cracked Cup appears when life has etched its story into your form. In the upright position, it honors the quiet resilience of holding, even with a fracture. You are still a vessel, capable of offering and receiving, though shaped now by experience. The crack is not your failure—it is your history, your refinement. Like kintsugi, where gold fills the fault line, your beauty is revealed in the break. This card invites you to celebrate what remains and flows, rather than what was lost.

Reversed Meaning:
Reversed, the Cracked Cup may signal that you’re trying to pour from what no longer holds. You might be ignoring signs of depletion, overextending despite inner fractures. There may be grief you’ve hidden in plain sight, or a perfectionism that keeps you from offering anything at all. This card urges rest, repair, and self-compassion. It’s okay to set yourself down for a while.

Reflection Questions:

  • What am I still trying to hold that might be leaking away?
  • Where can I find grace in my imperfections?
  • Am I trying to serve others without tending to my own mending?

Affirmation:
Even with a crack, I remain a vessel. I hold beauty, truth, and healing within my imperfect form.

_____________________

In the wake of deep loss, there are no easy words. The grief sits heavy, as it should.

And yet, as artists, we often turn to our work to hold what cannot be spoken. We make marks, tear paper, mend fragments—because our hands need to do something with the sorrow.

Artists can bring gold to the broken.

The old practice in Japan called Kintsugi, where broken pottery is repaired with gold, doesn’t hide the cracks, but honors them. It does not undo the break. Like The Cracked Cup, it simply says: this mattered, this was loved, this was lost—and it still holds beauty.

When our artwork feels broken, we can follow this same impulse—to mend with grace, to let the light in through the cracks.

Here are five little ways artists can add a touch of gold to their broken places – almost as a metaphor.

1. Gold Leaf or Metallic Wax on Cracks or Seams
Highlight repaired tears, joins, or fractures with gold leaf or metallic wax. Instead of concealing damage, this elevates it—visibly celebrating the healing process and transformation. Even in collages or fiber works, adding a subtle gilded line over a seam can evoke this reverent beauty. Book Foil makes wonderful lines over a wax surface – I use this often.

2. Thread or Wire Mending
Use gold or brass wire or gold embroidery thread to literally bind pieces together. Whether it’s torn paper, fabric, or broken sculptural elements, the physical act of mending with golden thread becomes a ritual of restoration and reverence. My friend Flo Bartell just emailed me this morning about using a gold wire for knitting, to communicate a delicate permanence. Perhaps we are all needing a bit of gold as shining metaphor.

3. Symbolic Gold Marks
Paint or draw golden lines, halos, or marks over areas that feel unresolved or damaged. These can represent scars or epiphanies—places where the work “broke open” and something new emerged. Think of them as visual blessings for the broken spaces. Use a gold Sharpie or paint pen for some asemic writing on unresolved work.

4. Incorporating Found Golden Objects
Embed small gold-tone found objects—buttons, charms, keys, or jewelry fragments—into your artwork where pieces feel lost or incomplete. These additions can be talismans of memory, resilience, and beauty born from imperfection.

5. Transforming Damage into Focal Points
If part of a piece is damaged, emphasize that area with a glowing, gold-infused feature—like a golden portal, sunburst, or frame. This approach not only restores but transforms what was broken into the heart of the piece’s meaning.

In the quiet aftermath of loss, The Cracked Cup reminds us that even when something breaks, it still has purpose—maybe even more than before. Like the golden seams in a kintsugi vessel, the work we do to mend our hearts can become part of the beauty we share.
If you are an artist, know this: your creative practice is a balm, a beacon. Keep making. Keep tending to your art as an offering—not just for yourself, but for the community that surrounds you.
And please, take care of yourself and those you love. Be gentle with your days. Hold your own cracked cup with tenderness, and let your light shine through the places that have been broken open.
♥Lyn
Previous Oracle Cards:

THE SHINY OBJECT

THE HUMP

THE WANDERER