NOTE: During my recent trip to Santa Fe to teach an Objects of Devotion workshop at Paseo Pottery, I had the pleasure of visiting the studios of two friends: Sam Takeuchi in Santa Fe and Hebé Garcia in Abiquiú. Their studios were wonderfully different, and each inspired me profoundly. In Sam’s world, I felt the quiet harmony of art and daily life woven together. In Hebé’s, I recognized something of my own artistic dreams, expressed through her unmistakable vision. I’m still thinking about what both visits gave me, and I want to share a little of each experience—here is Hebé, in a studio high on a mesa.

“This body of work is a preliminary response reflecting our daily observations and encounters in Abiquiu. Living in New Mexico has brought us a deep sense of peace, mainly due to the breathtaking landscapes and tranquil atmosphere. Abiquiu has given us a strong sense of belonging and stability, much like the annual nesting of the Say’s Phoebe on our front porch. This series delves into my hopes, apprehensions, and how I feel both body and mind–it’s about our journey and evolving connection with this captivating land.” ~~Hebé Garcia, The Way There –

High on a mesa in Abiquiú, in Georgia O’Keeffe country, my friend Hebé Garcia has a studio I could dream of having.

The setting alone would have been enough to make me awestruck. But inside was something that moved me even more: figures and paintings that resonated so strongly with my own longings as an artist that I felt an almost immediate recognition.

The Conversation: An Ongoing Series – Hebé Garcia

Here were kinds of work I have dreamed about making. That is a curious feeling to encounter in someone else’s studio. I have been thinking about it ever since, partly because of the ease and pleasure I felt. I could admire Hebé’s work completely. I could feel its connection to something in me without measuring my own work against hers.

There was no feeling of competition or inadequacy. There was simply the joy of seeing what she makes.

The piece above is part a series on a high wall that you see when you walk through the door of the studio. It’s breathtaking. She writes,

“The Conversation series is an ongoing project that gives weight to what our silence can mean under different circumstances. Composer Ellisor states: ‘All things begin and end in silence. All things are contained in silence. And it follows that our silent conversations of the heart are some of our loudest’. All pieces are made using slabs and coils of mid-fire red sculptural clay with engobe, oxide, glaze , and some with gold luster.”

Hebé and I talked about family. Her female forms and figures feel deeply connected to her family and her environment. They belong to the world she inhabits. I felt that connection in the work, and I felt how fully she was in tune with it. Her work it technically superb and thematically endearing.

My own work has often led me toward figures, guardians, vessels, and objects that seem to carry a story. Visiting Hebe, I recognized an affinity with those interests, expressed through a life and a vision entirely her own. I didn’t need to know exactly why a piece moved me to feel its pull.

Hebe’s paintings and sculptures seem to be in quiet conversation with one another. The female forms that give her sculptural series such presence find another kind of expression in her paintings, carrying the same sense of connection to family, place, and the world she inhabits.

I was struck by how naturally she moves between two dimensions and three, allowing each medium its own voice while keeping a deeply personal thread running through both. She is a gifted painter and sculptor, and seeing the work together gave me a fuller sense of the artistic vision that makes it so unmistakably hers.

Burrowing for Tranquility

Look at the owl’s expression! How can you not love her work? As I said earlier, there is simply the joy in seeing what she makes. There are little vignettes everywhere in her studio that make you smile.

I came away thinking about dreams we carry quietly in our studio practice—the forms we return to, the images that persist, the work we keep imagining even while we are busy making something else. Sometimes another artist brings one of those dreams into focus. We see it living in their work and remember to pay attention to what is stirring in ours.

I also came away with this piece – she wears a raven headdress! Of course she had to come home with me.

This work is part of the Thoughts and Memories series, about which Hebé writes: “In Norse mythology, Huginn (thought) and Muninn (memory or mind) are a pair of ravens that fly all over the world, and bring information to the Viking god Odin. I found myself using the ravens and their feathers as a symbol of my thoughts and memories ~ as a way to reconnect with my family. My aim is to collect these thoughts and memories, keep them safe, and present them to the viewer as a set of circumstances that can unfold in various directions.”

I would still happily dream about a studio high on a mesa. But what I most wanted to bring home was the sense of connection I felt there: an artist listening closely to her own life, and making work that could only come through her.

In my last post, I shared a glimpse of Sam Takeuchi’s world; visiting Hebé’s studio gave me another kind of inspiration. It makes me happy simply to know that Sam and Hebé are there, making their work in places that so beautifully reflect who they are—Sam in his serene, Zen-like world, where art and daily life seem inseparable, and Hebé in her light-filled studio, surrounded by paintings and sculptures that celebrate women, family ties, and memory.

I can picture them there even now, and that thought brings me a quiet joy. I’m grateful for their friendship, for the welcome they gave me, and for the deeply personal ways they make this world more human and more beautiful.

Thanks for reading,

Lyn

Sam Takeuchi, Vessel

NOTE: During my recent trip to Santa Fe to teach an Objects of Devotion workshop at Paseo Pottery, I had the pleasure of visiting the studios of two friends: Sam Takeuchi in Santa Fe and Hebé Garcia in Abiquiú. Their studios were wonderfully different, and each inspired me profoundly. In Sam’s world, I felt the quiet harmony of art and daily life woven together. In Hebé’s, I recognized something of my own artistic dreams, expressed through her unmistakable vision. I’m still thinking about what both visits gave me, and I want to share a little of each experience—beginning with Sam.

I had last seen Sam Takeuchi in February when we were in Taos for the Encantos Exhibition at the Taos Ceramic Center. We had talked during the show, and he and I agreed to trade work – a portrait of Sam from me to him, and a ceramic piece from him to me. When I saw him again, just two weeks ago on a visit to pick up my piece, his studio was even more magical.

There is a quiet continuity between Sam’s studio, his work, and the spaces where he shows it along with other Japanese claywork  . Moving through them, I had the feeling that everything belonged to the same beautiful, unhurried thought. The way he builds, works, and lives seems all of a piece.

He had transformed what was essentially a storage area in his live-in studio  into a combination gallery and serene gathering area. An architect, Sam had done this virtually by himself with the elegant, spare sense of space that defines his work and life. It was amazing to see what had happened in the eight months since we had been there!

The large platter piece on the left is by legendary potter Peter Voulkos, who was a good friend of Sam’s. Everywhere you look, there is an opportunity for a photograph.

Beautiful, humble, eloquent, elegant—each describes something about the experience, but none quite captures the whole. There is a Zen sensibility that I felt throughout his world: an attentiveness to materials and space, a sense of enough. Even the humble things seem to have room to speak.

As artists, we spend a great deal of time thinking about our work. We think about materials, technique, meaning, and what comes next. We also have the rest of our lives to attend to, and sometimes the distance between those two things can feel considerable.

At Sam’s, I felt how closely they could belong together.

That stayed with me after the visit. I began wondering about the small choices that shape my own working life. What do I surround myself with? What do I give my attention to? How does my studio support the work I hope to make—and the way I hope to feel while making it?

My own studio is full of gathered things, possibilities, and projects in various stages of becoming. I love its abundance and even its chaos. Sam’s world made me curious about how thoughtfully I inhabit my own.

Perhaps that is one of the gifts of visiting another artist: for a little while, we get to experience the choices that have become almost invisible to them. We see how a way of working can gradually become a way of living.

PS – you can see the post about the making of Sam’s portrait here.

I’m off to Santa Fe where I’ll be teaching a workshop on Objects of Devotion (and it looks like rain most of the way). There are dark clouds of every kind all around us.

So, one of the last tasks I needed to finish was a review of the editors’ introduction to Wax Fusion, the publication of the International Encaustic Artists, which will be out at the end of October. The theme is finding light in dark times.

“We are living through uncertain times, when it can be hard to see what lies ahead. Such moments ask us to be resilient and adaptable, but also to reach toward one another with compassion.”

I want to add a small invitation: reach out with your hands, too. Make something to hold onto.

Shape a small vessel. Wrap a rock with twine. Gather scraps of cloth into a bundle with a few charms tucked inside. Fold and stitch a little handmade book, even if you don’t yet know what belongs on its pages.

When I’m afraid, my thoughts tend to circle the same uneasy territory. Working with my hands gives that restless energy somewhere to go. There is a thread to pull, a piece of clay to press, an edge to fold. My attention returns to what is here, within reach.

The object doesn’t have to be beautiful or useful. Let it carry something you need: courage, tenderness, a memory, a hope. Your time and attention give it meaning.

Start small. Give your hands something creative to do. Hold on to it.

Making something won’t resolve the uncertainty around us. But it can give us a tangible reminder that we still have the capacity to care, to choose, and to bring something into being. That feels like a comforting pushback against fear and darkness.

And afterward, there it is—in your palm, on your worktable, beside your bed. Something you made. Something you can touch when you need to remember that the light comes back. ♥

“Art is the highest form of hope.”
— Gerhard Richter, painter

Preparing to teach a workshop is a lot like preparing a meal for friends.

At first, there is the pleasure of imagining it. What might we make together? What ingredients will invite people in? How much structure will help them feel comfortable, and how much room can I leave for discovery?

Then, as the day approaches, the worries begin. Will I forget something? Will there be enough? What if they don’t like what I’ve planned?

I felt all of that while creating my newest online Objects of Devotion workshop, The Offering Banner. I thought about each lesson, filmed the processes, gathered materials, and made example banners. I wanted to show how paper, fabric, photographs, and small personal offerings could come together. More than that, I wanted people to feel free to make something that meant something to them.

Once the workshop went out into the world yesterday, the first responses were wonderfully encouraging. People understood the invitation. Their enthusiasm reminded me why I love teaching: I can prepare the materials and demonstrate a process, but I cannot imagine in advance what each person will bring to it. Someone else’s memories, images, questions, and ideas will take the work somewhere I could never have planned.

I’ve barely had time to put away the metaphorical dishes, and already I’m preparing for another gathering: my Objects of Devotion: Ceramic Assemblage Workshop in Santa Fe at Paseo Pottery.

This one asks something entirely different of me. The Offering Banner lives online, where people can pause a lesson, return to it, and work in the familiar surroundings of their own studios. Santa Fe will be in person, in a new place far from home. I’ll be packing tools and materials, thinking through what will fit in a suitcase and a box, and picturing a room I don’t yet know filled with people I haven’t met. There is no “pause” button when everyone is waiting for the next step.

It feels a little like cooking in someone else’s kitchen. I can bring a recipe, but I won’t know quite where the bowls are or how the oven behaves until I arrive.

And yet, that is part of the joy of it. In person, I get to see what happens at the worktables: a found object that sparks a story, a question that changes my demonstration, a bit of encouragement passed from one participant to another. The workshop becomes a conversation. It takes on a life that no lesson plan could contain.

The same thing is true of a good meal. Guests rarely know how many times the host checked the oven or changed the menu. They arrive with their own stories, appetites, humor, and generosity. Soon everyone is passing plates, talking across the table, and making the occasion come together.

I do need to prepare carefully for the Paseo Pottery workshop. I want people to have what they need and to feel welcomed.

But I’m learning that my job is not to guarantee a perfect experience. It is to make a place where people feel able to begin, experiment, and follow what matters to them.

Here’s a “recipe” I cooked up for them about how to turn a little pinch pot bowl into a bird! (He does look a little like a sweet potato at one point :))

So I’ll make my lists for Santa Fe. I’ll pack the tools, plan the demonstrations, and probably check the suitcase and boxes twice, at least.

Then I’ll open the door and see what everyone brings to the table.

That’s when the feast begins.

How often have you heard someone say, “I’d love to be an artist, but I can’t draw”? Perhaps you have said it yourself.

Somehow, many of us acquired the idea that the art world is divided into two groups: those who can draw realistically—the talented—and those who cannot—the untalented.

Drawing becomes a massive gate standing at the entrance to creative permission. If we cannot reproduce a face, a flower, or a bowl so that it looks “right,” we decide that we do not belong on the other side.

This question came up recently in a Zoom meeting with people who had questions about The Enso Circle residency that Michelle Belto and I offer. Someone asked if knowing how to draw was a requirement to join. Basically, the answers is absolutely not.

The ability to create a realistic representation is only one artistic skill. It is not the same thing as imagination, curiosity, sensitivity, originality, or creative force. Sometimes those qualities overlap with traditional drawing ability. Sometimes they do not.

Why Are We So Afraid to Draw?

Drawing can feel unusually revealing. A painting may be layered, scraped, collaged, or altered, but a drawn line seems to announce exactly what our hand did. We worry that the proportions will be wrong, the perspective will wobble, or someone will immediately recognize that we “don’t know how to draw.”

Children rarely begin with this fear. They draw because drawing is a way to tell a story. The sun can be enormous, a person’s arms can grow directly from the head, and a beloved dog can be purple. None of this troubles them. The drawing has done its job: it has expressed something.

At some point, however, many of us begin comparing what appears on the paper with what we believe the subject is supposed to look like. Drawing changes from an act of discovery into a test—and tests can be failed.

Perhaps we are not actually afraid of drawing. Perhaps we are afraid of being judged.

Is Drawing Important?

Yes—but perhaps not for the reason we think.

Drawing teaches us to look. It helps us notice the angle of a shoulder, the space between two objects, the way a branch divides, or the surprising shape made by a shadow. It can improve coordination between the eye, mind, and hand.

The drawing above is one I made seven or eight years ago while sitting on the banks of the Frio River. I spent about two hours observing a small gathering of stones in the shallows as the water trickled around, over, and beneath them. In that time, I learned more about each individual rock and pebble—and about the movement of the water—than I ever thought possible. It was an exercise in observation, but also in patience and presence.

The longer I looked, the less ordinary those stones became. Each developed its own shape, weight, shadow, and relationship to the current. The drawing became more than a record of what I saw; it became a record of the time I spent truly seeing.

And how did that help me? The act of drawing required a kind of attention that simply looking would not have demanded. Each mark asked me to slow down, compare one shape with another, follow the water’s path, and notice where an edge disappeared into shadow or current. Drawing became a way of thinking through my hand—a record not only of what I saw, but of how deeply I had learned to see it. That lesson followed me back into the studio, sharpening my awareness of texture, form, movement, and relationship.

Would I do it again? Probably not—not in quite the same way. The drawing served its purpose. Through making it, I learned what sustained observation could reveal, and I carried that knowledge forward into other ways of working. Some exercises are not meant to become habits or rituals. They are thresholds: we cross them, absorb what they have to teach us, and move on.

And fortunately, making a drawing does not have to result in a realistic picture to be valuable.

A drawing can be a map, a notation, a memory, a gesture, or a record of movement. It can help us investigate the structure of an object or capture the feeling of a place. It can be made with charcoal, ink, thread, wire, scissors, or the edge of a piece of cardboard.

Drawing is not always about making a picture of something. Sometimes it is simply thinking with a line.

And one more thing: saying “I can’t draw” should never be a reason not to call yourself an artist. Drawing is only one tool among many, not a test you must pass to earn the name.

If drawing is something you truly want to learn, you can teach yourself to draw what you see with accuracy. I say this as an art teacher with thirty-five years of experience. Be prepared to practice, but remember that drawing is a skill, much like playing the guitar or learning to work at a potter’s wheel. It is not a mysterious gift reserved for a talented few.

In my next post, I’ll share several books that can help you develop that skill—including the very same book I used as an undergraduate art major in the 1960s!

And I’ll pose this question – Why Do So Many Famous Artists Learn Realism and Then Turn to Abstraction?

I’ve been both surprised and touched by the response to my new workshop, Objects of Devotion: Creating Contemporary Reliquaries and Icons. Of course, I’m delighted that people have enrolled, but there seems to be something more behind the response—almost a sense of recognition.

As a teacher, there is nothing more satisfying than realizing that something you have created has given people permission to explore an idea they were already carrying within them.

This whole series of workshops has made me wonder whether we may be living through a renewed need for personal objects of devotion. I don’t necessarily mean religious objects, although they certainly can be. I’m thinking of handmade pieces where memory, gratitude, grief, nature, and hope can be given a physical form.

My friend Matt Toomey has expressed this idea beautifully with his wonderful contemporary reliquaries:

“These pieces are more than just decorative objects; they are personal invitations to experience a moment of stillness and meditation in the middle of life’s chaos. The boxes themselves are treated as cold wax and oil paintings, with rich, textured surfaces that evoke the beauty and complexity of the natural world. My goal with these reliquaries is to celebrate the sacred in simplicity, creating a visual and tactile experience that encourages reflection, rest, and reverence for the natural world.”

I encourage you to read his thoughts about reliquaries and nature.

“Each element within the reliquary is carefully chosen and crafted to evoke a sense of stillness and connection. The birds, for example, often symbolize freedom and the soul, while the nests evoke ideas of home, protection, and nurturing. The pods and weavings speak to the interconnectedness of life and the way nature weaves its elements together into a unified whole. These objects, while simple in form, carry layers of meaning that invite the viewer to look deeper and contemplate their own relationship with the natural world.”

You can see more of Matt’s reliquaries and read the entire essay here.

So much of what we see every day is fleeting. Images scroll past. News arrives, worries us, and is quickly replaced by more news. Things are purchased, used, and discarded. Even our artwork can get caught up in a cycle of producing, exhibiting, promoting, and selling.

A reliquary asks us to do something different. It asks us to slow down and think about what we want to keep.

A photograph, a handwritten note, a clay shard, a feather, a tiny book, or a fragment of an earlier artwork can become part of a very personal visual language. When we choose one of these things and give it a special place, we are saying, “This matters to me. I don’t want it to be lost.”

Making Art That Doesn’t Need to Be Sold

Artists are often encouraged to think about audience, exhibitions, marketability, and price. Those things are part of an artist’s life, but they aren’t the only reasons we make art.

Some objects have a different job.

There is a wonderful kind of freedom in making something that doesn’t have to explain itself to a gallery, a juror, or a potential buyer. It doesn’t have to fit into a familiar category. It can stay with its maker, hanging in a quiet corner or sitting on a shelf among other meaningful things.

The Private Function of Art

A work can be visually strong and still be deeply personal. It may include a photograph of someone we love, part of an earlier piece, or a small found object that would mean very little to anyone else.

We don’t have to translate every symbol for an audience. We don’t have to explain every choice. The object can simply hold what we have placed inside it.

Maybe that is part of the reason reliquaries have existed in so many forms across cultures and across centuries. They give us a place for the things whose value can’t be measured in ordinary ways.

Why This Work May Be Resonating

The response to these workshops has made me think that people may be looking for permission to make something intimate, symbolic, and not easily categorized. Here’s a personal talisman piece by Dottie Eberhart from the Tokens and Talismans workshop:

This talisman was created from a memory of sitting on a rock in a mountain stream journaling many years ago. The thought that came to me was stop trying to swim upstream and allow the water to carry you. It knows your destination.

We may also be looking for ways to make art that feels more contemplative and less commercial. Art can help us pay attention. It can help us discover meaning in things that might otherwise be overlooked or thrown away. It can give a physical home to something we have carried inside us for a long time.

The reception to these workshops has reminded me of something that is easy to forget: art does not always have to enter the marketplace to justify its existence. It does not always have to become inventory, content, or a product.

We might make something simply because a memory needs a safe place. We might make it out of gratitude. Or we might make an object simply because we need to have it near us.

Not everything we make is merchandise.

Some things are simply keepers of what matters.

Thanks for reading!

Lyn

• The Objects of Devotion Workshops – so far . . . .
• The Keeper of Fragments
• The Listening Vessel
• Tokens and Talismans
• Contemporary Reliquaries and Icons

Last week, I wrote about discovering the work of Lorraine O’Grady through a Women’s Caucus for Art project and about the unexpected gifts that come from saying yes to creative communities.

This week, I find myself thinking about that idea of saying “yes” again.

This Saturday, I have the pleasure of volunteering with a community of Prayer Flag makers. This remarkable group already does such meaningful work, creating prayer flags that carry messages of hope, comfort, remembrance, and encouragement where they are needed.

“…birds make their nest in circles, for theirs is the same religion as ours. The sun comes forth and goes down again in a circle. The moon does the same and both are round. Even the seasons form a great circle in their changing, and always come back again to where they were.” – Black Elk

My role is a happy-teacher one. I have been invited to share some mixed-media ideas for incorporating paper, fabric, imagery, and words into their flags. But as so often happens, I suspect I will receive far more than I give.

When we step outside our own studios and offer our creativity in service to a larger community, we often return carrying something unexpected—new ideas, renewed hope, deeper connections, and a clearer understanding of why making things matters.

As I prepared for this workshop, I decided to record a short demonstration video (fusing paper and fabric with acrylic medium) for myself and anyone else who might be interested. And I thought perhaps you’d like to see it! (LINK BELOW) It may not be ready for prime time, but it’s a good example of how I plan a project by creating a prototype first.

The techniques in this project are intentionally open and adaptable. Perhaps they might inspire you to create a banner for your studio, a small offering for a friend, a memorial piece, or a visual expression of your own hopes for the world.

VIDEO LINK

Whether or not you ever make a prayer flag, you may discover ideas in this little video for combining paper, fabric, images, and words into your own meaningful creations.

Every artist has something worth expressing—a hope, a memory, a blessing, a gratitude, or a message meant for someone else. Sometimes a simple project can become a beautiful place to begin.

Lorraine O’Grady asked important questions about who is seen, who is heard, and what remains outside the frame. Community art projects ask similar questions in their own important way.

• Who needs encouragement?
• Who needs beauty?
• How can our creativity become an act of connection?

Maybe this is another unexpected gift of saying “yes”.

We begin by offering our time, our skills, and our willingness to participate. And we end by remembering that art has always been about relationship—to history, to community, and to one another. Sometimes, in saying yes to a small project, we discover a larger world.

Thanks for reading! Now go make a banner to honor your brave creative self!

I just returned from Colorado where I saw some wonderful art, like these ephemeral, powerful fiber art garments by Wendy Mike at the Auric Gallery that floated like magical gossamer armor.

While I was walking, fascinated, through this amazing exhibition, I heard someone ask the gallery owner, “Is It Archival?” It’s one of the most common questions artists hear.

The question usually arises when someone learns that a piece contains unconventional materials: a scrap of paper from an old book, a rusty object, a found photograph, a fragment of cloth, a piece of cardboard rescued from the recycling bin, or silk stiffened with polymer..

Will it last? It’s a reasonable question. Museums ask it. Conservators ask it. Collectors ask it. Artists ask it of themselves. And yet I sometimes wonder if we are asking the wrong question.

What if the more important question is: Did it touch your heart?

We live in a culture that sometimes places enormous value on permanence. We buy acid-free boxes, UV-protective glass, archival inks, conservation-grade adhesives, and museum-quality papers. We are encouraged to think in decades and centuries.

But human experience rarely works that way. A flower is not archival. A sand mandala is not archival. A handwritten note tucked into a pocket is not archival. A child’s drawing on the refrigerator is not archival. Yet each of these can hold tremendous meaning.

As artists, we certainly want our work to be well made. We want it to endure as long as reasonably possible. There is nothing wrong with using materials that honor longevity and craftsmanship. But sometimes the pursuit of permanence overshadows the purpose of making.

Many of the objects I create are what I think of as objects of devotion. They are vessels, figures, fragments, and assemblages built from humble materials—paper, wax, cloth, clay, rusted treasures, and found remnants of other lives. They are not always intended to survive for hundreds of years.

Their purpose is not immortality. Their purpose is connection.

They remind us of a memory, a longing, a story, a mystery. They give shape to something that was previously invisible. They create a moment of attention in a distracted world.

Perhaps that is enough. After all, how long does something need to last to be valuable? A conversation may last only a few minutes. A sunset disappears in moments. A piece of music fades as soon as the final note is played. Yet their impact can stay with us for a lifetime.

Maybe the true archive is not the object itself but the imprint it leaves behind. The joy of making. The comfort of holding. The spark of recognition. The memory carried forward.

Archival materials matter. But perhaps meaning matters more.

Objects of Devotion and the Joy of Making

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

She said this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Devotion Through Making

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the Pupil Is Ready

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

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

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

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

A Thought on On “Unfinished” Work

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

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

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

They are already objects of devotion.

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

Sometimes the most respectful choice is not to finish them.

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

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

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

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

Then see what happens when you trust the answer.

___________________________

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

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

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

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

And then came the artist talks.

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

The Quiet Panic Behind the “Podium”

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

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

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

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

All of that, in three minutes.

The Translation Problem

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

And Still… We Do It

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

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

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

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

Here’s an Instagram link to my brief talk.

What Helped Me (and Might Help You, Too)

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

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

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

Maybe That’s Enough

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

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

A Final Thought

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

Thanks for reading –

Lyn