Which kernel calls to me . .?

In my last post, I made the case that you do not have to know how to draw realistically to call yourself an artist. I still believe that completely.

But that doesn’t mean drawing has nothing to teach us. What if the real value of drawing isn’t the ability to produce a convincing picture of something, but what happens while we try?

Drawing teaches us to look. Not glance. Not identify. Not say, That’s a piece of popcorn and move on. To really look.

When we draw something from observation, we begin to notice things we would otherwise miss—the peculiar edge, the unexpected shadow, the place where one shape disappears behind another. We stop drawing what we know is there and begin drawing what we can actually see.

And that’s useful whether you’re a painter, a fiber artist, a sculptor, an assemblage artist, a photographer—or someone who rarely picks up a pencil at all.

So for Part Two of this little exploration of drawing, I’m not going to talk about perspective or anatomy or how to shade a perfect sphere. I’m going to draw a piece of popcorn. Seriously.

I used to do this exercise with my high-school art students to help them develop their powers of observation. It’s deceptively simple—and that’s part of what makes it work.

Pop or purchase some popcorn. Choose one kernel. Arrange it in front of you with good lighting. I put mine on a toothpick on top of a plastic cup so I could see it clearly from all sides. Rotate it until you get an interesting view. Get out your sketchbook and a pencil.

Before you draw, look.

Notice the bulges and folds, the tiny crevices, the unexpected shadows, the strange silhouette. Forget for a moment that you know what popcorn looks like. Then begin to draw—and give this ridiculously ordinary little object your complete attention.

Start at one edge and pretend your pencil is touching the shape as you slowly travel along the contour. Because this time, the drawing isn’t really the point.

The looking is.

I’ll admit that this kind of slow looking is not particularly natural for me. With ADHD, my attention is usually eager to move on to the next thing—the next idea, the next object, the next possibility. At first, sitting still and studying one piece of popcorn can feel almost absurdly challenging. But something interesting happens after a few minutes. The restlessness begins to settle, curiosity takes over, and I start noticing things I genuinely hadn’t seen before. It doesn’t take long to move from “I’m supposed to be looking” to “Oh! Look at that.”

And nobody will know what your popcorn looked like, so relax. This is for you.

Once you’ve finished your observational drawing, you can stop right there. The exercise has done its job: you slowed down, looked closely, and recorded what you actually saw.

Or you can let the drawing become something else.

Now the question shifts from What do I see? to What does this make me think or feel? Add words, lines, collage, color, symbols—whatever seems to belong. You’re no longer drawing the popcorn. You’re responding to the experience of having drawn it.

[caption id=”attachment_10683” align=”alignnone” width=”1942”]

Pop Zen

In mine, I added a circle, a few spare lines, the words “study in observation,” and the stamped word ZEN. Suddenly my little popcorn study became a visual statement about attention—something that is not always easy for me.

Observation gave me the image. Interpretation gave it meaning.

The drawing becomes raw material for expression. Someone could make a very awkward little popcorn drawing and then turn it into an absolutely compelling piece of art.

Which circles all the way back to Part One: being able to draw realistically isn’t what makes you an artist. It’s what you notice, what you choose, and what you do with it.

Ate all the popcorn? Try a broken bird egg, a bone, or a baby pomegranate.

If this kind of slow-seeing practice resonates with you, and you’d like to explore drawing not simply as a way to make pictures but as a tool for observation, here are the two books that have helped me most.

The first, The Natural Way to Draw by Kimon Nicolaïdes, was actually my drawing textbook when I was a first-year art major—and I still return to its ideas all these years later. The second, Betty Edwards’ Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain, is another classic, one I’ve relied on for both teaching and learning for many years.

Neither book is really about becoming a virtuoso draftsman. They’re about learning to see—and trusting that the hand can learn to follow where the eye leads.

The Natural Way to Draw — Kimon Nicolaïdes

First published in 1941, this is a classic—and still one of the most thoughtful books about drawing I know. Nicolaïdes treats drawing less as a technique for making accurate pictures and more as a way of developing a deep physical and visual connection with what you are observing. His exercises in contour, gesture, memory, and sustained observation teach you to experience what you’re looking at rather than simply copy it. It requires patience and practice, but that’s precisely its gift.

Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain — Betty Edwards

Betty Edwards approaches drawing from a different direction: she teaches us how to get past the symbols our brains use as shorthand—eye, hand, chair, face—and begin seeing the actual shapes, angles, spaces, proportions, and relationships in front of us. Exercises involving contour drawing, negative space, and turning images upside down can produce almost startling changes in the way beginners draw. Whether or not you embrace the book’s original “right brain/left brain” explanation literally, its central lesson remains enormously useful: drawing changes when we stop drawing what we think we know and start drawing what we actually see.

___________________________________

Before I leave, I know you’re all dying to know if I ate the popcorn kernel when I was finished drawing it.

I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

After spending all that time looking at it, it somehow didn’t seem like just a piece of popcorn anymore.

So I pressed it between the pages of a book, like a flower, and I’m going to find a secret place for it in my next Object of Devotion assemblage.

Thanks for reading!

Lyn

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?

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.

He writes: “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:

Dottie writes: 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

So here’s the reason for this week’s post: if I tell you about this new workshop now, I’ll have no choice but to finish it by the end of next week. Public accountability can be a wonderful motivator. Do you ever give yourself those kinds of self-imposed deadlines?

The funny thing is, I’m not having trouble creating the workshop. Quite the opposite.

I keep wandering off the path.

Every time I sit down to film the next lesson, I become so absorbed in making these little reliquaries that I disappear into another creative side trail. One idea leads to another, another box wants to become a shrine, another story asks to be told—and before I know it, I’ve spent the afternoon happily exploring instead of recording videos.

Playing around with “relics”

It happened with the first three workshops, too—The Keeper of Fragments, The Listening Vessel, and Tokens and Talismans.

Apparently, getting delightfully lost is just part of my process.

So here’s where this newest adventure is leading...

Relics of Meaning: Creating Contemporary Reliquaries and Icons

A small shrine for someone—or something—you never want to forget.

Some gifts arrive in the form of people. Others come as places, animals, (or birds!) mentors, memories, or moments of unexpected grace. In this workshop, we’ll create a small shrine of gratitude—a contemporary reliquary that honors something that has profoundly influenced who we have become.

This workshop was inspired directly by my recent series of Crow Reliquaries, currently on exhibit at the San Antonio Art League + Museum.

From the Crow Reliquary Series

One unexpected diversion has been color.

In the first two lessons, I talk about painting and texturing the surface of the reliquary canvas itself. I’m not primarily a painter, but I’ve become completely absorbed in mixing what I’m calling timeless colors—those quiet, weathered hues that don’t seem to belong to any particular decade or trend.

They’re created by letting complementary pigments soften and gray one another, and somehow the process takes me right back to my art school days. I’d forgotten how much I love simply mixing paint.

Naples yellow, Pthalo blue, Quin gold

But this workshop is really about more than color.

It’s about the things we choose to remember, honor, and carry forward. Sometimes that means creating something entirely new. Sometimes it means giving new life to something you’ve held onto for years—a treasured object, a fragment from an earlier piece, a photograph, a small keepsake, or an image that has become part of your own visual language.

Reliquary in progress . .

I thought I’d give you a little sneak preview from one of today’s lessons. It’s about what I call the Icon Box—the small space at the heart of the reliquary.

VIDEO LINK

The name is intentionally simple. It’s the Icon Box—the place where the reliquary holds what matters most.

The overall question is simple:

What belongs inside a reliquary?

There isn’t a single right answer.

It might hold a small encaustic collage you create today. It might cradle a collection of found objects that have quietly traveled through your life. It might become home to a vintage photograph of someone who still guides you, or a meaningful fragment rescued from an earlier artwork and given a new purpose.

The little box becomes a place of remembrance—a contemporary shrine for someone, somewhere, or something you never want to forget.

I’m hoping to have the workshop finished next week. (Now that I’ve told you that in public, I suppose I’d better get back into the studio instead of wandering off on yet another delightful tangent.)

I’ll keep you posted.

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!

A call for entries.
A request from an arts organization.
An invitation to participate in a collaborative project.

At first glance, these opportunities can feel like just one more thing on an already crowded calendar. Another deadline. Another commitment. Another piece to make.

And yet, some of the most meaningful creative experiences of my life have begun with exactly these kinds of invitations.

Again and again, I have discovered that when I say yes to serving a community, I receive far more than I give.

I learn about artists I might never have encountered. I stumble into histories I was never taught. I find myself in conversation with ideas that might reshape my own work.

Recently, this happened when I accepted an invitation from the Women’s Caucus for Art to participate in a collaborative portrait project. The experience introduced me to the extraordinary artist Lorraine O’Grady, whose work and writing continue to linger in my thoughts.

But this isn’t only a story about Lorraine O’Grady.

It is also a story about why creative communities matter.

Organizations such as the Women’s Caucus for Art, Fiber Artists of San Antonio, GAGA, and so many others do important work in advocacy, education, and support. We join them because we believe in collective action and because we know that artists are stronger together than they are alone.

But there is another gift these communities offer. They continually lead us beyond ourselves.

They remind us that our creative lives are not solitary journeys. They place us within a larger lineage of makers, teachers, activists, and visionaries. They help us discover artistic ancestors.

I love that phrase: artistic ancestors.

Sometimes we agree to make a small artwork, and in return we inherit a new teacher.

Sometimes we volunteer our time and talents, and in return we are given a wider understanding of where we belong.

Perhaps this is one of the hidden miracles of artistic advocacy.

We think we are offering service to a community, but the community quietly gives something back: new stories, new influences, and new companions for the journey.

Has this ever happened to you?

Have you ever said yes to a project, a collaboration, or a volunteer opportunity and discovered an artist, writer, or idea that changed the way you see your own work?

I would love to hear your stories.

And if you’d like to read more about how one small invitation led me to discover the work of Lorraine O’Grady and reflect on the importance of artistic lineage, I’ve written more about that experience on my blog:

When Advocacy Becomes Inspiration: Discovering Lorraine O’Grady Through Service

Sometimes saying yes to a small project opens the door to a much larger world.

One of the questions I’m asked most often is “How do you know what to make next?”

For years, I thought every new piece had to begin with a brand-new idea. Lately, though, I’ve realized something different.

Most of my work doesn’t begin with something new. It begins with something familiar.

My newest altar, Walking the Labyrinth, was created for the annual Celebration Circle Altar Exhibition at the San Antonio Art League + Museum. While I was building it, I realized I wasn’t inventing a new visual language at all—I was returning to one I’d been speaking for years.

The wooden eggs first appeared in my early Encanto altars. At the time, I simply loved their quiet presence. Looking back, I can see they had already become symbols of possibility, mystery, and the things we carry before they’re ready to emerge.

The crows arrived later in my Crow Reliquaries. They brought with them ideas of witness, memory, and the threshold between worlds. Now one quietly keeps watch over the traveler in Walking the Labyrinth.

The faces...

The vessels...

The arches...

The spirals...

They’ve all been traveling with me for years. I don’t consciously decide to include them. They simply belong.

And I suspect every artist develops this kind of visual vocabulary.

Writers have favorite words. Musicians return to familiar chords. Artists gather forms, symbols, colors, and materials that continue speaking to them long after a single project is finished.

Those recurring elements become more than design choices. They become archetypes—objects that carry meaning beyond themselves. They tell us what we’re trying to understand, what we’re returning to, and perhaps even what we’re devoted to.

Here’s an exercise I’d love to suggest.

Spend a little time looking back through several years of your own work.

What keeps reappearing?

• Birds?

• Circles?

• Windows?

• Hands?

• Maps?

• Certain colors?

• Certain materials?

Those repetitions aren’t failures of imagination, or a lack of what to do next.

They’re clues.

They’re the visual language you’ve been quietly teaching yourself to speak.

This idea feels deeply connected to my ongoing Objects of Devotion series because I’ve come to believe something that once seemed impossible:

Our symbols choose us as much as we choose them.

We don’t manufacture an authentic artistic voice overnight. We discover it by noticing what insists on returning.

That’s a comforting thought for artists who worry they’re “doing the same thing again.”

Perhaps the work isn’t repeating itself at all. Perhaps it’s deepening the conversation.

And perhaps those recurring forms—the crow, the egg, the vessel, the spiral, the face—are our own Objects of Devotion, patiently waiting for us to recognize what they’ve been trying to teach us all along.

I’d love to know: What symbol keeps returning in your own work—or even in your life?

Lyn

P.S. If you’d like to see Walking the Labyrinth, read the exhibition statement, and learn more about the symbolism behind the piece—including the blessing inscribed across the altar—I’ve written a longer post on my blog.

Read the full post here: Finding Your Artistic Vocabulary

This week I had grand plans.

I imagined sitting down with a cup of coffee (or, more realistically, a Diet Dr Pepper) and writing one of those thoughtful blog posts that wanders through ideas before gently arriving somewhere meaningful. But another project had other plans for me.

I was determined to finish the Tokens and Talismans workshop before the end of the month, and every spare hour found its way into filming, editing, photographing, writing lessons, and making tiny objects filled with meaning.

So this isn’t the fancy Substack post I imagined. And maybe that’s exactly the point.

One of the hardest lessons for artists is accepting that we don’t have to do everything perfectly all the time. We spend so much energy trying to make the work just right that we sometimes forget to be kind to the person making it.

I’ve come to believe that one of the most important Objects of Devotion we can create—or care for—is ourselves. Not in a grand or self-important way, but in small, everyday ways.

Giving ourselves permission to stop for the day.

• To leave something “good enough.”

• To make something simply because it brings us joy.

• To trust that not every painting, collage, vessel, or talisman has to carry the weight of the world.

Whew.

The funny thing is that when we stop demanding perfection, our work often becomes more honest. We’ve talked about this before. The work becomes more personal. More alive. Perhaps that’s why this new workshop has become so dear to me.

Tokens and Talismans is all about creating small objects that hold memory, intention, hope, gratitude, protection—or simply delight. They’re humble little pieces made from found objects, handmade clay elements, paper, thread, fiber, and whatever treasures have been patiently waiting in your studio for the right moment.

They’re reminders that meaning doesn’t come from perfection. It comes from attention. From choosing. From caring.

So instead of polishing this post for another day or two, I’m sending it along just as it is and inviting you to see what I’ve been working on.

I hope you’ll join me for Tokens and Talismans: Personal Objects of Meaning and Small Devotional Collections. I think it may be one of the most joyful workshops in the Objects of Devotion series so far.

And if this week’s post feels a little less polished than usual...

Perhaps that’s my newest devotional practice.

Crow Reliquary: The Dreaming Witness, 2026

Making art is largely a matter of making choices, but I’ve come to believe that the choices we don’t keep are just as important as the ones that stay.

Recently, while finishing one of four new Crow Reliquaries, I found myself in that familiar place where a piece feels almost complete—but not quite. I tried several solutions. Small charms. A rusted metal shell. A weathered piece of driftwood. Each one seemed promising, but none of them quite belonged.

Looking back at the photographs, I realized that none of those attempts were mistakes. They were stepping stones. Every rejected choice quietly pointed toward the one that finally stayed.

Perhaps that’s why I collect so many things in the studio. Old boxes, rusted metal, beads, fragments of clay, photographs, shells, twigs. I rarely begin with a fixed plan. Instead, I surround myself with possibilities and wait for the work to reveal what it needs.

Over the years, I’ve learned that making art is often less about invention and more about recognition. Eventually, one piece simply feels right.

I documented the entire process of The Dreaming Witness—from the first experiments to the final solution—and shared all the photographs and details on my blog.

You can see the complete photo story here on my blog, SHARDS.

And I’d love to know—if you had been standing beside me in the studio, would you have chosen something different? Do you plan your work carefully, or do you let the piece reveal itself one decision at a time?

After all, perhaps making art isn’t so much about making perfect choices as it is about recognizing them when they appear.

A few days ago, while working on a series of small encaustic collages for an upcoming exhibit, I spent nearly thirty minutes looking for a half-inch scrap of paper.

Not a rare scrap. Not a valuable scrap. Just the one that belonged.

Eventually I found it, glued it in place, and moved on.

Later, as I was writing about the experience, I realized that what looked like a search for paper was really a search for a decision.

Artists spend an astonishing amount of time making decisions. Which image? Which color? Which object? Which mark? When is it finished? What should be removed? What should remain?

But the longer I work in the studio, the more I wonder if the real challenge isn’t making decisions.

The real challenge may be accepting that there is rarely only one right answer.

The little collage I was working on could have succeeded with three or four different scraps of paper. The crow assemblage on my table could probably be completed in several different ways. A different choice would have created a different piece—but not necessarily a worse one.

That realization has become one of the most useful lessons the studio has taught me..

One of the most common reasons artists get stuck is the belief that there is a single right answer.

The right composition.
The right color.
The right image.
The right next step.

I understand the temptation. I spend plenty of time searching for the perfect collage scrap or moving an object from one side of an assemblage to the other. But after years in the studio, I’ve come to suspect that creativity works differently than we imagine.

Most artistic decisions do not have one correct answer.

They have several good answers.

The challenge is not discovering the perfect choice. The challenge is choosing one path, following it with conviction, and allowing the work to reveal what comes next.

In fact, some of my favorite pieces began with decisions that turned out to be “wrong.” A rusty fragment that didn’t work led to a better object. An image that felt out of place suggested a more interesting direction. A mistake became a discovery.

Artists often talk about finding their way through a piece. The phrase is accurate. We don’t solve our work so much as navigate it.

The same may be true of life.

We spend a great deal of energy worrying about whether we are making the right choice when perhaps the better question is whether we are making a thoughtful choice and paying attention to where it leads.

There are times when a decision is clearly wrong. But far more often, there are several possible paths forward.

The studio reminds me of this again and again. There is rarely one right answer. There is only the next choice.

In my last post, I wrote about a question artists are often asked:

“Is it archival?”

It’s a practical question. Will the materials last? Will the colors remain stable? Will the artwork survive for generations? Those are important concerns. As artists, we want our work to be made with care and craftsmanship. But since writing that post, I’ve been thinking about another way of looking at value and permanence.

It comes from a Japanese phrase:

mono no aware
(moh-noh noh ah-WAH-reh)

The phrase is often translated as “the pathos of things.” While that translation is accurate, it can sound a bit formal and melancholy.I prefer to think of it as an awareness that everything changes—and a tenderness toward that fact.

When I first encountered the phrase, I thought it referred primarily to fleeting moments. A cherry blossom that blooms for only a few days. A sunset that fades before we are ready. A song that ends too soon. Those examples certainly fit.

But the more I sat with the idea, the more I realized that mono no aware is not only about witnessing something fleeting.

It’s also about honoring the fleeting moments that have already passed.

• A faded photograph.

• A handwritten recipe card.

• A child’s drawing.

• A worn quilt.

• A shard of pottery.

• An old letter tucked inside a book.

None of these things are fleeting in themselves. In fact, they may have survived for decades.

Yet they move us because they carry the memory of something that was fleeting—a conversation, a childhood, a relationship, a season of life that can never be repeated.

The object becomes a vessel for memory. And perhaps that is where art enters the conversation.

Many of the things I create are assembled from fragments: old papers, bits of cloth, found objects, rusted treasures, and broken pieces that have already lived another life.

I’ve often wondered why I am so drawn to these materials. Perhaps it is because they already carry evidence of time.

A shard is not simply a broken object; it is a reminder that something once existed in another form. A worn piece of cloth speaks of the hands that touched it. A rusted object quietly marks the passage of years. Even a simple vessel suggests stories that were held, shared, and carried forward.

These objects become meaningful not because they have escaped change, but because they reveal it.

As I’ve been developing my Objects of Devotion series, I’ve realized that many of these pieces function in exactly this way.

They are not meant to preserve a particular moment forever. Rather, they honor the traces left behind by moments that mattered.

A Listening Vessel may hold memories of conversations spoken and unspoken. A Guardian may embody someone who protected us, guided us, or encouraged us along the way. A shard may become a reminder of resilience, transformation, or healing.

The object itself becomes less important than the human experience it carries.

That realization helped me understand something about the archival question.

The archival question asks:

How long will the object survive?

Mono no aware asks:

What human experience does the object carry?

Both questions matter.

We want our work to endure as long as reasonably possible. There is honor in making things well. But permanence is not the only measure of worth. A conversation may last only a few minutes. A song only a few moments. A friendship a season. A life a handful of decades.

Yet their influence can remain with us forever.

Perhaps the deepest purpose of art is not to defeat time but to bear witness to it. Art holds memory. Art honors connection. Art reminds us that what is fragile is often precious.

The Japanese seem to understand something that many of us spend years learning:

The awareness that things do not last forever does not diminish their beauty.

It deepens it.

The photograph matters because the moment is gone.

The shard matters because it remains.

The artwork matters because it helps us remember.

And perhaps the feeling at the heart of mono no aware is not sadness at all.

Perhaps it is gratitude—the quiet gratitude that comes from recognizing that something beautiful passed through our lives and left a trace behind.

Thanks for reading.

I recently returned from Colorado, where I spent some time exploring galleries and soaking up the inspiration that always seems to find me (lucky me!).

One exhibition in particular stayed with me.

At Auric Gallery in Colorado Springs, I encountered the extraordinary fiber art garments of Wendy Mike. They floated in the gallery space like magical gossamer armor—delicate yet powerful, ethereal yet deeply present. I found myself moving slowly around them, fascinated by their textures, transparency, and sense of mystery.

While I was standing there, absorbed in the work, I overheard a visitor ask the gallery owner a familiar question:

“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 often 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.

I’d love to hear your thoughts. Have you ever been moved by something beautiful that wasn’t meant to last? Or do you think permanence is part of what gives art its value?

Next time, I’ll explore a Japanese idea called mono no aware—the bittersweet awareness that beauty is often inseparable from impermanence.

One of the unexpected gifts of teaching is that students and residents often ask questions that linger long after the conversation is over.

Today, while preparing work for the Enso Circle catalog, a Resident asked:

“Is it okay to include a piece that began in one of your workshops?”

It’s a practical question, but it immediately opened the door to a much larger one:

What does it mean for art to be original?

I suspect every artist has wondered about this at some point. If we learned a technique from a teacher, borrowed an idea from a book, worked within a tradition, or followed a workshop prompt, is the resulting artwork really our own?

We often imagine originality as something that appears out of nowhere: a flash of inspiration untouched by influence. The myth of the solitary genius is deeply rooted in our culture. We picture artists standing alone before a blank canvas, inventing something the world has never seen.

But history tells a different story.

For centuries, artists learned by studying and copying other artists. Apprentices worked in the studios of masters, repeating techniques and forms until they became second nature. Potters learned vessel shapes handed down through generations. Quiltmakers shared patterns. Icon painters followed established traditions. Folk artists learned from parents, neighbors, and communities. In many cultures, mastery was measured not by inventing something entirely new but by carrying a tradition forward with skill, care, and personal expression.

Art has always been a conversation.

One of my favorite books, Steal Like an Artist by Austin Kleon, explores this idea beautifully. His central premise is simple: nothing comes from nowhere. Every artist is influenced by what came before—books, teachers, music, museums, memories, landscapes, family stories, and the work of other makers.

The goal is not to avoid influence.

The goal is to transform it.

As a collage artist, I’ve always found this reassuring. Much of my work is literally assembled from pieces created by other people: vintage photographs, old letters, dictionary pages, maps, scraps of paper, fragments of images. I am borrowing materials that already have a history and a life of their own.

Yet no one would mistake the finished collage for the work of the people who originally created those fragments.

Something happens in the act of choosing.

Something happens in the arrangement.

Something happens in the relationships that emerge between the pieces.

The transformation becomes the art.

Perhaps all creativity works this way. We gather influences, experiences, techniques, stories, and materials. We carry them around for years, often without realizing it. Then, when we make something, those influences combine with our own questions, memories, instincts, and choices. The result may contain traces of many ancestors, but it bears our fingerprints.

I often think about this when I work with found objects. A rusty piece of metal, a worn photograph, a fragment of cloth, an old clay face—none of these began with me. They come carrying their own histories. My role is not to erase those histories but to bring them into conversation with one another, creating a new narrative from what already exists.

The same is true of artistic traditions. We don’t stand outside history. We stand within it.

Every vessel has ancestors.

Every collage has ancestors.

Every poem, quilt, painting, assemblage, and song has ancestors.

And perhaps that is exactly what gives art its richness. We are connected not only to our own ideas but to a long lineage of makers who have wrestled with the same questions of beauty, meaning, memory, and expression.

So what about that workshop piece? My answer is simple: yes, of course.

(Naturally, creating a direct copy of an instructor’s work is a different matter; transformation begins when the artist moves beyond imitation and allows the work to be shaped by their own questions, experiences, materials, and imagination.)

A workshop can provide a prompt, a technique, a starting point, or an invitation to explore. But what happens next belongs to the artist. The choices you make, the discoveries you uncover, the meaning you bring to the work—those are yours alone.

Originality is not the absence of influence. It is the presence of transformation.

Everything comes from somewhere. Every artwork has ancestors. The question is not whether your work was influenced by others.

The question is what happened when those influences passed through your hands.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this. Have you ever worried that your work wasn’t “original enough”? Or have you discovered influences and artistic ancestors in your own creative practice that surprised you?

One of the joys of teaching is seeing how differently artists interpret the same starting point. If you’d like to see this idea in action, take a look at the new Objects of Devotion Gallery and explore the many interpretations of The Keeper of Fragments. Each piece shares an ancestor, but every one tells a different story.

With gratitude for all the artists, teachers, traditions, and fellow voyagers who have shaped my own creative path,

♥ Lyn

Lately I’ve been thinking about gratitude — specifically the entwined kind that seems woven into the creative life.

It’s not gratitude in the greeting-card sense, but something deeper and steadier than that. It’s the kind that appears when you notice yourself still stopping to look at light across a table. Still saving beautiful scraps of paper. Still gathering fragments and ideas and strange little connections even during difficult seasons of life.

It amazes me that so many artists continue to make things at all.

Most creative people I know are balancing work, caregiving, uncertainty, exhaustion, finances, family responsibilities, world events, and all the ordinary weight of being human. And yet the creative impulse persists. Somehow, even in the middle of all that, we still feel that inner nudge that says:

“Look at this.”
“Pay attention.”
“This matters.”

The older I get, the more that feels less like ambition and more like companionship — as though creativity itself walks beside us through life, waiting patiently when we are discouraged and reappearing to remind us that beauty and meaning still exist, even in small forms.

I’ve also been thinking about whether gratitude sometimes needs expression, not a performance or productivity. Not content. Just a small private gesture of thanks.

A stitched fragment.
A tiny clay object.
A bundle of papers tied with thread.
A token made simply to acknowledge the mysterious fact that our creative spirit is still here with us.

The more I reflect on this, the more I realize that artists and makers throughout history have probably always done this in one form or another — creating small meaningful objects not necessarily for display, but as acts of remembrance, hope, gratitude, protection, or devotion.

I wrote more about that idea in my latest SHARDS blog post. You can read the full reflection here.

And in the meantime, I hope you continue making whatever small meaningful things help you remain connected to beauty, hope, and wonder.

Grateful for you —

♥ Lyn

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

That thought has shaped my upcoming workshop, The Listening Vessel, which I’m currently filming as part of the Objects of Devotion series. And somewhere in the middle of all that filming and reflecting, I asked the Continuing Residents of The Enso Circle a simple question:

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

The answers surprised me.

One resident described herself as a weathered Irish curragh carrying too many burdens, slowly learning what must be thrown overboard—and what was never a burden at all.

Another spoke of an old childhood basketball, now deflated with age but still filled with memories of love, imagination, family, and the sound of it thumping against the side of a wooden house while her mother sewed quietly inside.

Another said she would be a drop of water—able to nurture, adapt, merge, and move freely without losing herself.

What moved me most was how instinctively everyone understood the metaphor.

A vessel is never just a container.

It is something that holds.

Something shaped by pressure, use, time, repair, memory, and care.

And perhaps that idea feels especially meaningful right now.

We live in a world overflowing with noise, urgency, information, and unfinished thoughts. Maybe that’s why vessels continue to matter so deeply to artists and makers. We long for spaces of containment. For objects that suggest listening instead of performance. Shelter instead of speed. Presence instead of reaction.

Ancient vessels carried grain, oil, water, ashes, medicines, prayers, offerings, and sacred texts. Handmade containers protected precious things that could not simply be left exposed to the world.

Perhaps our creative work does something similar.

I ended up writing more about this reflection over on my SHARDS blog, where I’ve shared several of the residents’ beautiful responses in full, including thoughts from artists in California, New Zealand, and Vermont whose words stayed with me long after our discussion ended.

And now I’ll ask you the same question:

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

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

The answer may reveal more than you expect.

PS - The Listening Vessel workshop opens next week as part of the Objects of Devotion series.

A question from a student in the Keeper of Fragments workshop stayed with me this week:

“I love how you use your materials without worrying if they get hidden. I struggle with that. Everything feels too precious to lose.”

I understand this completely.

What you’re feeling isn’t hesitation—it’s care. You’re recognizing the beauty in your materials. And that’s a beautiful place to begin.

But here’s the turning point:

When everything feels precious, nothing can move.

If every piece must remain whole and visible, it can’t transform. It can’t become part of something larger. It stays safe—but also silent.

Over time, I’ve come to see my materials not as things to preserve, but as participants in a conversation. Their purpose isn’t to be fully seen. Their purpose is to contribute.

Even what’s hidden matters.

A fragment under wax, a torn edge in a layer—these still shape the work. They still carry presence.

So here’s a small invitation:

Choose one piece that feels “too precious.” Use just a fragment of it. And notice what shifts—not just in your work, but in you.

Because this isn’t really about paper. It’s about trusting that what we love can change…and still belong.

→ Read the full post on SHARDS

Every once in a while, someone says exactly what you’ve been trying to articulate—and says it better.

Yesterday, I received a note from a student in The Keeper of Fragments. She wasn’t submitting an assignment. She just needed to share something that had shifted.

This was the line that stayed with me:

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

That’s it. That’s the whole idea behind Objects of Devotion.

We’re trained—almost from the beginning—to evaluate our work.
Is it good enough? Skilled enough? Finished enough?

But that question can stall us. It can send us back into hesitation, comparison, second-guessing.

So what happens when we ask a different question?

Is it true?

True to what you felt.
True to what you noticed.
True to the reason you started in the first place.

She told me she went back to a piece she had abandoned in February—stuck in that loop of “Is this good enough?” This time, she approached it differently. She finished it.

And what mattered wasn’t the polish. It was the meaning.

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

That’s the shift.

That’s when something you make stops being just an object… and becomes something else entirely.

Objects of Devotion

This is what I’ve been exploring in my new workshop series.

Not how to make better things for display.
Not how to perfect technique.

But how to make with intention.

To gather fragments.
To shape and assemble.
To follow what draws you in.

Because when we work this way, the result isn’t just something we’ve made.

It’s something that holds our attention, our care, our presence.

A kind of record of being here.

A tangible expression of joy.

A Small Invitation

If you have something unfinished nearby—a piece you’ve set aside, something that didn’t feel “good enough”—you might try this:

Go back to it.

Not to fix it.
Not to improve it.

Just to ask:

Is there something true here?

And if there is… follow that.

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.

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

It’s called The Keeper of Fragments. And in many ways, it feels less like a beginning and more like a recognition.

If you’ve followed my work for a while, you may already know this language.

The spirit figures.
The small altars.
The reliquaries.
The layered collages.

I can see now that each of them was, in its own way, an object of devotion, not in a strictly religious sense—but in a deeply human one:

A devotion to memory.
To meaning.
To the quiet act of making.

What is a Keeper of Fragments?

It begins very simply with what you already have. Saved papers. Scraps you couldn’t throw away. Images that stayed with you for reasons you may not even understand.

From there, through layering and wrapping and assembling, something begins to take shape.

A small face formed in clay.
A figure that holds presence.
A kind of archive of where you’ve been.

The Keeper becomes a companion of sorts—

Part spirit figure,
part story,
part guardian of what has remained.

About the workshop

This is a self-paced online workshop, designed to move at your rhythm.

• All videos are downloadable

• You can return to them anytime

• The workshop is $27

• Future workshops in the series will remain at this same accessible price

My hope is that this becomes something you revisit—not just a class, but a steady place in your studio practice.

A personal note

One of the most meaningful parts of creating this series has been hearing from those of you who signed up for more information.

I’ve been reading your descriptions of your work. There is such depth there. Such honesty. Such curiosity. It tells me that this idea—devotion through making—is already alive in many different forms.

If you decide to join me in The Keeper of Fragments, I would truly value your feedback. Your thoughts will help shape what comes next.

What’s coming

The next workshop, The Listening Vessel, will be released in late May.

And yes—there will be more.

Altars.
Books.
Other forms that continue this exploration of making as a practice of care.

An invitation

You don’t need special materials.
You don’t need a perfect plan.

You just need a few fragments—
and the willingness to begin.

If this speaks to you, I would love to have you join me.

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

Thank you for being here, and for the work you are already doing.

Making is how we practice devotion.

—Lyn

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

But it was during my recent exhibition in Taos, Encantos: Shared Enchantments in Clay, that something became especially clear.

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

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

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

Not in a strictly religious sense, but in a deeply human one—a devotion to process, to memory, to meaning, and to the quiet relationship between the artist and the work. That realization has led me to something new.

I’m beginning a series of twelve self-paced, three-hour workshops—released one at a time, approximately once a month—on my Teachable site.

The series is called, simply, Objects of Devotion.

We will begin with:

The Keeper of Fragments: A Devotional Archive Figure

This wall-mounted studio guardian brings together elements of spirit dolls, boxes, layered collage, clay, and assemblage—simplified into an accessible and deeply personal process.

It’s designed to help you gather what you are truly devoted to in your creative life: your colors, your words, your meaningful fragments—the pieces that mark your journey.

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

Creating the prototype and filming its emergence has been a joy. It draws from many of the forms that have shaped my work over time—spirit dolls, vessels, Wanderers, Neo-Santos—and brings them together in a new way, centered on your own creative fragments.

The next workshop in the series will be:

The Listening Vessel: Holding What Emerges in Stillness
(available in late May)

In this workshop, you’ll create a small hand-formed vessel using plaster, paper, and natural materials—an object shaped as much by listening as by making.

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

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

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

Future workshops will explore shrines and altars, talismans, Santos, pods and vessels, and narrative ex-votos. I look forward to sharing the full series with you soon.

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

Each workshop is both process-based and object-centered. You’ll create something tangible—something you can hold, revisit, and reinterpret over time.

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

Each workshop emphasizes:

• Simple forms explored through mixed-media techniques

• Accessible materials, chosen with care and respect for the natural world

• Processes that can expand into your own artistic language

Each workshop is affordably priced at $27 and is yours to keep.

There’s no need to commit to the full series—simply choose the ones that resonate with you.

The first workshop, The Keeper of Fragments, will be available next week.

If you’d like to be the first to know when new workshops are released, you can add your name here.

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

We, the artists, were each given about three minutes. Three minutes to talk about work that, for most of us, took far longer to understand than to make. And there it was—the familiar chorus:

I’m not as good as these other artists.
How do I say this clearly?
What if I don’t get it right?

It’s such a peculiar thing, being an artist.

We spend hours—days—sometimes years—thinking through a piece in a language that isn’t quite verbal. We follow instincts, respond to materials, recognize something before we can name it.

And then, suddenly, we’re asked to explain it. Condense it. Make it make sense.

I didn’t do it perfectly. But I said something true.

And afterward, I realized that maybe that’s all we can ask of ourselves in those moments—not perfection, not eloquence, just honesty.

Since then, I’ve been thinking about how hard it is for so many of us to talk about our work—and how rarely we’re given tools to do it in a way that feels natural. There’s also a link to my talk on the blog:

Read the full post here

And if you’re facing an artist talk, an open studio, or even just a conversation about your work—I hope this helps:

You don’t have to say everything. Just say something true. That’s enough.

Thanks for making art and talking about it!
Lyn