What Is Encaustic Painting — And Why I Work Dot by Dot

If you've stopped by my booth at an art show, you've probably asked the question. Sometimes it comes out as "Wait, what's *in* this?" Or you lean in close, squint a little, and say "Is that... wax?" Yes. It is. And that's exactly where the story begins.

So, What Is Encaustic?

Encaustic painting is one of the oldest art-making techniques in the world. The word itself comes from the Greek *enkaustikos* — meaning "to burn in." Ancient Greek and Egyptian artists used it as far back as the 5th century BCE. The portraits found on Egyptian mummies? Many of those were painted in encaustic, and they are still vivid more than 2,000 years later. That's not a metaphor. The pigmented beeswax literally preserves itself.

The basic materials are simple: pigmented beeswax and damar resin, applied to a rigid surface — usually wood or panel — and then fused with heat. The heat is the critical ingredient. Without it, the layers don't bond. With it, the medium opens up into something luminous, tactile, and unlike anything else.

Encaustic has a depth that paint can't replicate. Light actually enters the wax and reflects back from within, which gives finished pieces that glow-from-inside quality that's hard to describe until you see it in person.

What I Do With It

My relationship to encaustic is not traditional, and I think that's what makes the work feel like mine.

I'm drawn to pattern, geometry, and visual rhythm — the kind of logic you find in quilts, textiles, tile work, and folk art from around the world. Those traditions have always fascinated me: the way a repeating shape can create movement, the way a small variation in color can shift the energy of an entire composition.

So I bring that sensibility into the studio and into the wax.

My process starts before I ever pick up a stylus. I design digitally first — sketching circles, squares, arcs, and repeating motifs, exploring balance, tension, and palette on screen. When a design feels right, I print it onto thin rice paper, which gets fused directly onto a panel coated with clear encaustic medium. That print becomes the foundation — a map I'm about to follow, mark by mark.

Then comes the part that surprises most people.

Dot by Dot

I build my pieces using a heated wax stylus, and I work one dot at a time.

It sounds meditative because it is. Each dot is a small decision. Each one adds texture, color, and a tiny layer of depth. Up close, you can see the movement and individuality in each mark. From across the room, the geometry and color take over, and the piece reads as something entirely unified.

This is where my background in mixed media shows up — my love for materials that invite touch, for techniques that reward patience. Fabric, thread, paper, wax: they all have that quality. You have to stay present with them. You can't rush.

The layering is real, not just visual. Each color sits at a slightly different depth in the wax, which contributes to the luminosity. Pieces that might look simple from a distance become increasingly complex the closer you get. I love that relationship — the shift in understanding depending on where you're standing.

Why This Process Is Different

A lot of encaustic artists work in a more painterly way — broad strokes, free-form gestures, abstract fields of fused color. That's beautiful work, and it honors what the medium can do.

My approach comes from a different place. The digital design phase means I'm thinking like a pattern-maker before I'm thinking like a painter. The rice paper transfer means there's an intentional structure baked into every piece before the first dot is applied. And the dot-by-dot execution means the final surface is built, not brushed — accumulated rather than swept.

It's part craft, part design, part meditation. And it's slow. Genuinely slow. Pieces that look simple can take many hours. The ones that look complex? Don't ask.

I work out of two studios: Artisans Asylum in Boston, a collaborative maker community that keeps me energized and connected, and my studio in Provincetown, Massachusetts, where the light and quiet are exactly what focused, patient work requires.

What Collectors Often Notice

People who live with my pieces tell me the work changes depending on the light. That's the wax doing its job. Morning light will catch the surface one way, afternoon light another. The texture of all those individual dots creates micro-shadows that shift throughout the day.

They also tell me it's hard to walk past without touching it. (Go ahead. It can handle it. Encaustic is incredibly durable — buffing it with a soft cloth can actually bring up an even deeper shine.)

If you've been curious about the work and haven't had a chance to see it in person, the best thing I can tell you is: come find me at a show. No image on a screen fully captures what's happening in the wax. But I'll keep trying to explain it here in the meantime.