Spiritual Monoprinting
January 12, 2026 3:29 am
Painting What I Can’t Define
A Liminal Space Reflection
A series of monoprints sits before me, and I find myself calling them spiritual. That word no longer holds the certainty it once did. Still, something in these prints feels deeply true—like a song my soul knows but my language cannot name. Rather than trying to explain it, I let image, color, and texture speak. This is where spiritual monoprinting begins for me: not as belief, but as honest expression.
Printing the Question
Bright oranges and reds appear first, carrying the heat of the sun. Yellows spread outward, while blues settle into cooler shadows. Words such as faith and God surface in the layers, even as I hesitate over their meaning. I pause over capitalization I once used without question. In the process, I realize that what I am printing is not certainty, but inquiry. Through spiritual monoprinting, I stay with the question instead of rushing toward answers.
Color, Sleep, and the In-Between
Recently, neon green has entered my work. The color feels electric and alive, like the moment between waking and sleep. In that hazy space, God feels less like a figure and more like shifting light. Soft edges and glowing transitions invite sensing rather than naming. Meaning seems to appear most clearly when I stop insisting on clarity and allow imagination to wander.
Gratitude follows thoughts of rest and healing. After decades of severe insomnia, sleep feels like a gift. I give thanks for waking refreshed and for the calm that comes with it. Greens and gritty browns balance against yellows and oranges, echoing early morning light. Neon pink carries my thoughts of Yesterday, glowing with all I have been and all I am becoming.
Holding Yesterday and Tomorrow
Attention turns to the present moment. Yesterday brings gratitude. Tomorrow offers questions without solutions. Instead of solving them, I sit with them. My monoprints become a place to hold memory and anticipation at once. In this tension, spiritual monoprinting offers peace—not through answers, but through presence.
Layers, Dreams, and Letting Be
Some suns in my work should not exist. Purple skies hold black rays that stretch outward like unanswered questions. Rough edges remind me that understanding rarely arrives neatly. Over time, monoprints become foundations for more layered pieces. Torn fragments, drawings, words, enamel paint, and silver gilt gather in response to a recurring dream I cannot fully explain.
In that dream, Jesus drifts in and out of view. Sometimes He heals. Sometimes He disappears. I remain suspended between what has been, what is, and what might come. Resolution no longer feels necessary.
Gold paint enters next—thick, luminous, and sacred. I use it to form halos around myself and around a flower that recalls the Eucharist. These images challenge old ideas of unworthiness and invite gentler ones in their place. Built from layers of print, paint, and collage, the surfaces feel deep, as if they could hold more than one truth at once.
For brief moments, the liminal reveals itself. Meaning is felt rather than explained. Art carries what language cannot. This is the heart of painting what I can’t define—trusting that the in-between knows how to speak when I am willing to listen.
