Why Every Fylgja Painting Contains a Portal
If you've looked at my paintings, you've noticed the circles.
Not background decoration. Not accidental composition. But deliberate, prominent circles that frame each animal—sometimes geometric and clean, sometimes organic and bleeding, always present.
People ask about them constantly: "Why the circles?" "Is it a halo?" "What do they mean?"
The simple answer: they center you.
The deeper answer: they're everything from Byzantine icon tradition to mandala meditation to literal portals between worlds. Let me explain.
What Happens When You Look
Stand in front of one of my paintings. The circle does something immediate: it focuses your attention. Your eye is drawn inward, toward the center, toward the animal's eyes. You can't look away. You can't let your gaze scatter to the edges, to the dripping backgrounds, to anywhere but here.
The circle commands: look at this animal. Really look.
And in that looking—in that forced attention, that centering—something shifts. You stop seeing "a pig." You start seeing this being. This presence. This creature with eyes that hold you as much as you hold them.
The circle creates sacred space. It says: within this boundary, pay attention. This matters. This is holy ground.
The Icon Tradition
I didn't invent the circle-around-sacred-subject. Religious artists have been using it for millennia.
The pig gets the icon treatment because the pig is divine.
Byzantine icons placed golden halos around saints and holy figures—circular frames that separated the divine from the earthly realm. Medieval Christian art continued the tradition. Ancient Egyptian art used the sun disk above deities.
The circle is how humans have always said: this is sacred.
When I paint a pig with a circular frame, I'm using the exact same visual language that's been used for thousands of years to indicate divinity. I'm saying: this animal deserves the same reverence we've given to gods, saints, and holy figures. Not ironic. Not humorous. Completely serious.
Mandala and Meditation
There's another tradition I'm drawing from: the mandala. In Hindu and Buddhist traditions, mandalas are circular designs used for meditation. The practitioner focuses on the center, allowing the circular form to guide their attention inward.
When you stand in front of one of my Fylgja paintings, the circle does the same work. It pulls your scattered attention inward. It demands presence. It creates a moment of forced meditation where you're not thinking about the animal but with the animal.
The dripping, chaotic backgrounds—those represent the noise of daily life, the constant mental chatter. But the circle? The circle is the quiet center. The still point.
Sun and Moon, Ancient Understanding
The circles in my paintings often suggest celestial bodies: sun disks, full moons, cosmic halos. This isn't accidental.
Connecting earthly animal to cosmic force.
Remember the Bronze Age sun chariot found in Odsherred? That's a horse pulling a circular golden sun disk. The ancient artisans understood: the circle equals divine power, cosmic force.
When I paint circles around animals, I'm connecting them to that same cosmic power. The cow with a lunar halo isn't just a cow—she's connected to moon cycles, to tides, to the feminine divine. The pig with a sun disk is connected to life force, to warmth.
In that connection, we remember: we're all part of the same web. Human, animal, sun, moon, earth.
Portal, Not Frame
Here's the thing people miss: the circle isn't a frame. It's a portal.
Frames are about containment. Borders. Separation. Portals are about threshold. Connection. Movement between realms.
When I paint the circle around an animal, I'm creating a doorway. The animal exists in both worlds—the earthly and the divine. The circle marks that threshold. And when you look at the painting—really look—you're standing at that threshold too. You're in the liminal space where human and animal recognize each other. Where Fylgja becomes real.
Why It Has to Be Round
Circles have no beginning or end. No hierarchy. If I used squares, I'd be creating corners—hierarchy, structure, human order imposed on natural forms.
But circles? Circles pull everything inward. Circles honor the cyclical nature of life. Circles are the shape of the sacred across every culture. Sun disks. Mandalas. Medicine wheels.
When I paint circles around animals, I'm using the oldest, most universal symbol for the divine.
Geometric Versus Organic
Sometimes my circles are clean and geometric—perfect arcs. Other times they're organic—bleeding edges, dripping paint.
Geometric: Clarity and defined presence.
Organic: The permeable boundary between worlds.
The geometric circles represent: clear sight, defined presence, the moment when recognition is sharp and undeniable. The animal emerges from chaos into clarity.
The organic circles represent: the permeable boundary between worlds, the way sacred space isn't always clean-edged. The animal isn't separate from the chaos—it's both in the circle and of the dripping backgrounds. Both divine and earthly.
The Metal Leaf Connection
Many of my circles contain metal leaf—thin sheets of copper and gold-toned composition metal applied to canvas. Gold has been the color of the divine for thousands of years. Gold = sun, eternal, incorruptible, radiant.
The gilded circle says: this is the divine made physical. This shimmer is the visible edge of the invisible. Every time light hits that metal differently, the painting shifts. The circle seems to pulse. Because it's not static decoration. It's active threshold. Living portal.
What the Circle Demands
Here's what the circle does that other compositional choices don't:
- It demands your attention. You can't casually glance at a painting with a prominent circle. Your eye is pulled to center.
- It creates hierarchy. The animal is the center, the point, the reason.
- It isolates and elevates. The animal isn't just in a scene. It's in sacred space.
- It forces relationship. You're drawn to threshold, to meeting point, to recognition.
The circle makes the painting a meditation. You can't consume it quickly. You have to pause.
Why It Centers You
This is the practical, immediate effect: when you look at one of my paintings, the circle physically centers your vision.
Your eye travels inward. Toward the animal's eyes (I always paint the eyes first—they're the portal within the portal). Toward stillness. Toward presence.
The dripping backgrounds represent the chaos of your mind—the constant thoughts, the endless tasks. But the circle? The circle is the breath. The pause. The return to center.
That's why people stand in front of my paintings longer than they expect. They're not just looking at pretty animal pictures. They're being centered. Grounded. Called back to presence.
What Viewers Tell Me
People who own my paintings say the same thing over and over:
"I can't look away from the eyes."
"It feels like the animal is looking at me."
"When I'm stressed, I look at the painting and something settles."
That's the circle working. That's the portal inviting: step through. Come to center. Remember who you are beneath the noise.
The Circle Is the Point
When I paint, I could choose any composition. I choose circles because circles say what words can't: This is sacred. This is center. This is threshold. This is where earthly meets divine.
Every Fylgja painting is a portal. The animal is the guardian of that portal. And the circle? The circle is the doorway. All you have to do is look.