Caretakers, Card readers and the work we don't see
Tarot, the art of care, and the overlooked legacy of Pamela "Pixie" Colman Smith.
In my orbit…
The Art Career podcast with Emily McElwreath has been a little slice of joy for me in the last couple of years. I often put it on during my daily walks, absolutely basking in the conversations she has about art, intention, and daily living as an artist. Just being able to listen to these intimate musings between two creatives is such an inspiration. This week I listened to the interview with artist Molly Gochman; it felt raw and honest in the best way possible. The interview centered around caretaking and the act of providing care—how care shapes the caregiver and the receiver, how it is often an invisible act, and how it deserves to be honored and cherished in a way that modern society often fails to do.
Gochman proposed that care could be considered an artistic practice in itself, yet often, it is taken for granted or ignored. She mentioned the monuments she passed every day on her commute, and I resonated—men frozen mid-battle, or just generally white dudes on horses. Can you imagine if instead, we built monuments to caretakers? This is something Gochman centers in her art. Imagine if we collectively cherished the hands that rubbed backs, braided hair, held grief, cooked dinners, and washed dishes of their own accord. What if we honored the folks who listen, who make the world an easier place to express vulnerability in, who soften the edges of our sharp world?
The episode made me think of my own role as a caretaker, analyzing the care I carry in my own hands. I try, albeit with a struggle sometimes, to hold space for my friends, my partner, and my hairdressing clients. I think sometimes about the act of washing someone’s hair—an act that’s often reserved only for parents or lovers—yet something I do with relative strangers on a daily basis. How just this act can seem to dissolve barriers, solidifying the idea that care isn’t always a grand gesture; sometimes it’s those things we do without even thinking twice. Things that might seem small but make a difference, like when a friend asks you gently, “But how are you really?” Or when someone calls unexpectedly just to check in, or leaves a meal on your doorstep. Or maybe it’s the willingness to sit with a loved one who is sad without needing to come up with solutions.
In today’s world, we seem to celebrate the loud, the bold, and the warrior—but what about the folks who show up with patience and hold things together, loving without limits or giving without the need to receive?
Mulling it over, I think that our culture really undervalues care. There is an emphasis on productivity and independence rather than interdependence. We praise efficiency. I wonder if, when we look closer, these qualities are not really the things that hold a community together. Perhaps it’s the quiet work that keeps things moving—the emotional labor rather than the physical labor. I wonder if it’s possible to see caretaking as a necessity, as an art, and what we can do to recognize it. To champion caretaking over just plain taking—what would that look like?
In the stars…
I’m slightly shifting away from astrology this week toward something that I consider equally capable of meaning-making: Tarot. I always considered astrology and tarot to be painted with the same brush—symbolic languages that help us reach the same destination: self-awareness. Astrology is a language of potentials, of archetypal energies at play, whereas tarot, tapping into these same archetypal energies, seems to be an ever-evolving story guided by the reader’s intuition, a tool for personal mythmaking. Both are ways of looking at time, or more so, marking moments in time and giving meaning to the invisible forces that may shape them.
A shameless plug—as luck would have it, I am hosting an in-person beginner’s tarot workshop at the Captain’s Pantry in Haarlem on the 16th of February. You can get your tickets here. It will be intimate and inclusive, providing insights into how tarot can be a tool for introspection, diving into the history of the cards and their meanings. I would love to meet some of you in person to connect over our mutual love of the Tarot. If you have ever felt drawn to the Tarot but weren’t sure where to start, this workshop could be a great way to get acquainted with the cards in a safe environment.
While researching for the workshop, I did a deep dive into Pamela “Pixie” Colman Smith. She was the illustrator of the classic Rider-Waite-Smith tarot deck. Yet, as has happened countless times throughout history to women and queer people of color, her name was left off the deck for decades, known only as the Rider-Waite deck. The Missing Witches podcast did an incredible episode on her, aptly noting that "She was a woman who drifted between worlds... a queer person of color hidden in the footnotes of occult history." I can’t help but look up her story with a flurry of “what if’s” ready to fire. What if she had been honored for her work during her time? What if the tradition of Tarot remembered her name as clearly as the men who published the classic deck?
Smith was an artist, a storyteller, and a caretaker of symbols. In the Missing Witches podcast, they mention that she would "paint, perform, publish, and always remain just outside the spotlight—except for those who knew where to look." Those words stuck with me, aligning with my recent pondering about caretakers—how many caretakers actually exist outside of the spotlight? Folks who pass down wisdom, who make things that they never get credit for, who make sure traditions survive. Smith said herself, "I make pictures with thought—stories, poetry, everything strange." Her work was an extension of her love of magic. It was magic. And as with caretakers, our world equally seems to overlook the magic makers.
The podcast claimed that "Pixie walked between worlds, but the world refused to walk with her." And it is this line that truly haunts me. I love to think of Pixie Colman Smith when I am engaging with the tarot—of her hands painting the images that so many folks turn to for guidance, her vision and creation shaping an entire tradition, yet her name was so close to being lost in time. On Missing Witches, they say, "Look for the door into the unknown country." And with that, I think of Tarot, astrology, caretaking, and magic-making, of creating and how all of these things act as doors to ourselves—or doors to something larger than ourselves, whatever you need them to be in that moment—the unknown country. They all act as ways of seeing and equally as ways of remembering, of honoring. I hope that moving forward, we are able to find more ways to take care— for ourselves, for each other. I think it’s clear that the world right now needs more caretakers—and equally, more monuments to them.