Standing at the Threshold of the Major Arcana

There is a strange feeling that accompanies the end of a long journey.

Not triumph.

Not relief.

Something quieter.

The sensation of standing at a doorway, one hand on the frame, knowing there is still an entire landscape waiting beyond it.

As I continue working on the Phantasmagoria Tarot, I find myself approaching that threshold. Many of the Major Arcana paintings have taken shape over the past months and years, emerging slowly through layers of research, revision, symbolism, and paint. While several pieces are still works in progress, the vision of the Major Arcana has become clearer than ever before.

The figures that inhabit this deck have become familiar companions. They have followed me through uncertainty, grief, transformation, illness, inspiration, and countless hours in the studio. Each card has asked its own questions.

The Fool asks what it means to begin.

The High Priestess asks what remains hidden.

Death asks what must change.

Judgment asks what happens when we finally hear the call that has been echoing beneath the surface all along.

Together, they form a narrative that feels less like a sequence of events and more like a psychological landscape—a journey through memory, identity, shadow, and rebirth.

In many ways, the Major Arcana has become the backbone of Phantasmagoria itself.

Yet despite the progress, these paintings are not finished.

Some still require revision. Others need details refined, symbolism strengthened, or compositions reconsidered. Like the themes they represent, they continue to evolve. I have learned that tarot imagery often reveals itself gradually, and forcing a card to completion before it is ready rarely produces the result I am seeking.

So they remain in conversation with me.

Works in progress.

Living things.

---

At the same time, I find my attention increasingly drifting toward what comes next: the Minor Arcana.

This is both exciting and intimidating.

The Major Arcana often receives the most attention because it contains the grand archetypes—the dramatic transformations, revelations, and spiritual milestones. The Minor Arcana, however, is where life actually happens.

It lives in ordinary moments.

In work and exhaustion.

In relationships and conflict.

In celebrations and disappointments.

In the quiet repetition of daily existence.

If the Major Arcana tells the story of the soul, the Minor Arcana tells the story of being human.

And there is a daunting beauty in that.

Seventy-eight cards can feel like a mountain when viewed all at once. It is easy to become overwhelmed by the scale of the project and to focus on what remains unfinished rather than what has already been accomplished.

But perhaps that feeling is fitting.

After all, every tarot journey begins with The Fool standing at the edge of an unknown path.

As I look toward the coming months, my goal is simple: continue moving forward.

Not perfectly.

Not quickly.

Just consistently.

To return to the studio.

To keep sketching.

To keep painting.

To trust that each completed piece becomes a stepping stone toward the larger vision.

Phantasmagoria has always been a project concerned with transformation, and perhaps creating a tarot deck is its own lesson in that process. The work changes. The artist changes. The meaning changes.

What matters is continuing to answer the call.

So while the Major Arcana remains unfinished, it also feels alive in a way that completed things rarely do. And as I stand at this threshold, looking toward the Minor Arcana waiting in the distance, I am reminded that every deck—like every journey—is created one card at a time.

The path forward may be long.

But the next card is waiting.

Judgement

The Judgment card is often misunderstood if you read it as punishment or moral reckoning. It’s less about being judged—and more about being called.

In traditional imagery (especially in decks like the Rider–Waite Tarot), an angel sounds a trumpet while figures rise from coffins. It looks apocalyptic, but it isn’t about destruction. It’s about awakening—a moment where something inside you can no longer remain buried.

Core Energy: The Call You Can’t Ignore

Judgment is the feeling of: finally seeing your life clearly recognizing a pattern you’ve been repeating realizing you can’t go back to who you were

It’s not gentle like The Star, and it’s not chaotic like The Tower. It’s sharper than that—clarity with consequence.

Themes Inside the Card

1. Resurrection (But Not Literally)

Something “dead” rises: an old version of yourself, a truth you avoided, a creative voice you buried

This is why the imagery matters—the coffins aren’t graves, they’re containers. You outgrew them.

2. Self-Evaluation Without Illusion

This is one of the few cards that asks:

Can you be honest about who you’ve been?

Not harshly. Not with shame. But with a kind of total clarity.

It’s the moment where excuses fall away—not because you’re punished, but because you’re ready to see.

3. The Past Returns for Integration

Judgment often brings: people reappearing, old memories resurfacin, unresolved situations asking for closure

Not to trap you—but to complete something.

4. Decision That Changes Identity

Unlike smaller decisions, Judgment choices alter your trajectory: leaving a relationship, choosing your art seriously, redefining your sense of self

It’s less “what should I do?” and more:

Who am I now that I know this?

In the Context of the Phantasmagoria

It’s the moment after the waiting.

The test result arrives

The body reveals something

Or even more unsettling: nothing is found, but something still feels different

Judgment isn’t always closure. Sometimes it’s recognition.

You could see this card in your world as:

a figure rising not from a coffin, but from their own body, translucent skin, inner organs illuminated, a sound (not necessarily divine) pulling them upward—maybe a frequency, a hum, a medical machine, a memory

In that sense, the real question of the card is:

Are you listening outward—or inward?

Judgment is not the moment you are condemned, but the moment you can no longer pretend you do not hear yourself.

The Liminal Body

There is a particular kind of waiting that dissolves time.

Not the soft waiting of seasons turning, or paint drying into its final truth—but the suspended, fluorescent waiting of medical tests. The kind where your body becomes both oracle and enigma. Where every sensation feels like a message you cannot quite translate.

In the language of tarot, this is the realm of the unseen card—the one that exists between the spread and the self. It is the inhale before revelation.

I imagine this space as a figure seated in a dim corridor, somewhere between the High Priestess and the Hanged Man. Not passive, but suspended. Not powerless, but held in a tension that asks for surrender. Their body is luminous and translucent, threaded with quiet constellations—organs glowing like distant stars, each one whispering a secret not yet spoken aloud.

Waiting becomes its own ritual.

We are taught to seek answers, to chase clarity like a fixed point. But the body, like the cards, does not always reveal itself on command. Sometimes it asks us to sit in the ambiguity, to trace the outlines of fear without letting it consume the image.

There is a kind of grief here—anticipatory, for futures that may never arrive. And yet, there is also an intimacy. To wait for news about your own body is to be drawn into a deeper listening. To notice the rhythm of your breath. The quiet labor of your heart. The strange, sacred fact of your aliveness.

In Phantasmagoria, I would paint this as a corridor of mirrors, each reflection slightly altered. In one, the figure is whole. In another, fragmented. In another, radiant beyond recognition. The cards are scattered at their feet, but all are face down.

Because sometimes, the truth is not in the knowing.

Sometimes, the magic—the terror, the transformation—lives in the waiting itself.

Clearing the air

I started some Spring Cleaning and started to realize I shouldn't just focus on my physical space but other areas of my life as well. For the month of April I'll be taking a social media break but I'd like to come back to my blog at some point during they time.

Unfortunately I found that there may be a leak in my corner of the art studio. I still have to mention this to the landlord who has yet to fix the leak in the kitchen. I have realized some of the stagnat air. Hoping for a burst of much needed energy.

Trying to steal the energy from the changing season. But alas I pulled a muscle on my leg and I can't keep jogging like I was trying to. Have to take a few days off to get physically and mentally back in the swing of things.

No makeup or fancy clothes. Just my favorite hoodie and some unfinished art pointing it's finger at me. 

I'll get to it I just can't wait for Mother Nature to get out the last of the cold breezes and rain. I want sunshine for days and skirt weather. 

How are spending this time of transition?

Dancing 'on' Two Pentacles

---

Dancing on Two Pentacles

I’ve been thinking about balance. Or maybe what passes for balance when your life is full of contradiction, chaos, and too many things demanding pieces of you at once.

Right now I’m working on the Two of Pentacles — the card of juggling, of instability, of keeping multiple plates spinning while the floor feels like it might fall out from under you at any moment. The irony isn’t lost on me. My life looks messy on paper, and in real life, it feels even worse. Work. Art. Relationships. Bills. Emotional labor. The little invisible weights that no one applauds you for carrying. And somehow, you have to smile while keeping the rhythm, pretending you’ve got it together.

Painting it is almost meditative. I let the brush stumble over the canvas like I stumble through my own life — messy loops, high saturated pigments, strokes that refuse to be neat. The two coins float and twist in a storm I can control only by letting go. The swirl of watercolors bleeding into each other, the way oils smear when the paint is thick, it’s all a reflection of the precariousness I carry.

Instability isn’t always chaos. Sometimes it’s rhythm. Sometimes it’s a dance you didn’t choreograph but are learning to move with anyway. My cat curls next to me, unimpressed, flicking a tail as if to remind me: “This is not the end of the world.” The tiny constant companionship anchors the juggling act.

I think of balance differently now. It’s not holding everything perfectly. It’s choosing which weights are yours to lift and which to let crash. It’s laughter in the middle of panic. It’s rage and softness coexisting. It’s painting a card about juggling while your own life feels like a two-ring circus.

This Two of Pentacles isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence. Awareness. The terrifying exhilaration of keeping everything in motion without losing yourself.

Sometimes the coins drop. Sometimes the floor cracks. And that’s okay. Because the act of getting up, brushing off paint, adjusting your rhythm, and starting again — that is the point. That is the magic. That is the ritual of living fully, even when your hands are full and the world feels like it’s tipping.

Balance isn’t static. It’s a heartbeat. It’s a wobble. It’s the storm and the calm at once. And as I paint this card, I realize: the dance itself is sacred.

Emerging from the Cocoon (Covered in Paint, Teeth Gritted)

Winter always tricks me into thinking I’ve disappeared.

Not dead — just buried under layers of waiting. Waiting for heat. Waiting for time. Waiting for my nervous system to stop buzzing long enough to remember I have hands, and those hands make things that matter.

For months I’ve been in a cocoon phase. Not the Instagram kind. Not the “soft healing journey” kind. The cramped, itchy, half-feral kind. The kind where the studio is a dining room table that still has crumbs on it. The kind where you only get thirty minutes every other day and you have to decide whether to make art or stare at the wall and recover from being alive.

And still — something has been shifting.

I’ve started painting again. Slowly. Awkwardly. Like stretching a limb that fell asleep years ago. Acrylic first, because oil asks for time and warmth and patience I don’t always have. Multiple tarot pieces moving at once because my brain doesn’t walk — it paces. The pentacles coming through first, grounded and stubborn, like they’re reminding me that growth is underground work.

Right now I’m working on the Ace of Pentacles — opportunity, money, new beginnings — which feels almost sarcastic and deeply necessary at the same time. A quiet promise sitting on a loud little canvas. My cat curled beside me like a small familiar, watching every brushstroke like it’s part ritual, part surveillance. Paint water on one side, coffee on the other, fur inevitably embedded somewhere in the texture.

High saturation pigments. Small surfaces. Loud little paintings that feel like they’re whispering secrets while screaming at the same time.

Not masterpieces. Not polished. Alive.

And honestly — the cocoon isn’t just about art.

I just had one of those explosive, soul-rattling arguments with my partner. The kind where your chest feels like it’s cracking open and you realize how tired you are of shrinking yourself to keep the peace. I’m fucking exhausted from being made to feel small. From folding my body and my voice and my needs into neat little shapes so someone else doesn’t feel comfortable.

It hit me hard — that same energy was seeping into my work. Painting smaller emotionally, not just physically. Holding back intensity. Editing my rage and my tenderness before they even hit the canvas.

No more.

The cocoon phase has teeth. It’s where you decide what parts of yourself are coming out alive and what parts get left behind as shed skin.

And here’s the truth: emerging isn’t graceful. It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s crying while you’re cleaning paintbrushes. It’s painting skulls and bodies that refuse to disappear. It’s brown bodies taking up sacred space. It’s softness that bites back. It’s refusing to apologize for existing in a world that constantly tells certain bodies they are not welcome, not beautiful, not powerful.

Every brushstroke right now feels like a small act of rebellion. Against silence. Against erasure. Against the voice that says “be smaller or be alone.”

I’m choosing to be louder instead.

Not fully out of the cocoon yet. Still damp-winged. Still learning how to exist in the open air again. But there’s movement. There’s color. There’s ritual in the act of showing up for thirty minutes and making something honest instead of something impressive.

If winter is about anything, it’s slow growth. Roots cracking stone where no one can see.

And I’m done pretending that growth is gentle. Sometimes it’s an argument that finally exposes a wound. Sometimes it’s anger that turns into paint. Sometimes it’s realizing your body — your loud, vulnerable, sacred body — deserves to take up the whole damn canvas.

The work is coming back.

So am I.

Winters Slow Alchemy (Slow Progress on the Pentacles)

I am making slow progress on the deck. I decided to bring my supplies in from the art room where my water cup was frozen solid.

Slow Magic: Painting the Minor Arcana in Winter

Progress on the Minor Arcana has been quiet. Not stalled—just moving at the pace of breath, bone, and season.

I’ve begun with the Pentacles, an intentional choice. Earth first. Body first. Work, survival, money, craft—the slow mathematics of staying alive. Instead of oil, I’m painting these in acrylic, letting the medium mirror the energy: quicker drying, layered decisions, a willingness to move forward without endlessly reworking the past.

I’m working on two to four cards at a time, passing between them like a pilgrim moving between small altars. When one painting resists me, another opens. When one feels heavy, another feels generous. It keeps the process alive—less like forcing a single vision into existence and more like listening for which image is ready to speak.

Winter feels like the right container for this pace. The world itself is not rushing. Roots are growing underground. Seeds are deciding who they will become. Nothing looks dramatic on the surface, yet everything essential is happening in the dark.

This is how the Minor Arcana wants to be made—not in a rush of spectacle, but through accumulation. Quiet labor. Repetition. Small revelations. Layer by layer. Card by card.

Pentacles teach patience. They remind me that magic is not always lightning—it is often soil, time, and the discipline to return to the work even when progress looks invisible.

Slow progress, yes.

But slow progress is still progress.

And sometimes it is the most honest kind.

http://phantasmagoriatarot.blogspot.com/