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It was just a napkin.

One I tucked into my art supply box before heading to Spring Green, Wisconsin, to lead my recent painting retreat.

But not just any napkin.

This one had soft pinks and greens and golden butterflies dancing through vines and petals. A little flock of birds, too—delicate and joyful.

It reminded me of my dear friend Kathleen, whom I met years ago walking the beach in Florida. Every year, like clockwork, I’d run into her strolling the shoreline, picking up shells, near her rented condo. Soon I was meeting her and her husband for dinner, sharing a bottle of wine, and talking about life, art, and books. She always brought something beautiful with her from home in Ohio—often just a stack of pretty napkins. Something small, but full of care. She said it helped make their Florida place feel more like home.

And now, years later, I have a stack of those lovely napkins that I’ve saved in my collage paper collection for my mixed media paintings.

I brought one to my Wisconsin retreat and used it in a demo painting—placing it at the center of this owl’s belly, where its heart might be.

This owl began, as most of my work does, with bold color and intuition. I let the inks and acrylics wander. A water-soluble pencil helped define the sketch of the face, which slowly transformed from a woman into an owl. Then I let the whole thing loosen again—with paint pens, movement, and feeling.

For this demo, I was asked to share collage techniques using bleeding art tissue paper, so it was fun to incorporate papers one of the retreat guests had brought. Soon, we were all painting in the flow together.

This owl feels like a collage of emotion.

There’s something about letting each mark lead to the next that reminds me to trust the unknown. To follow the joy, even when I’m not sure where it will take me.

A tender reminder that even the smallest gesture, like sharing a paper napkin or a moment of joy, can ripple outward.

Because that’s what I felt all weekend at the retreat:

Love, multiplied.

Generosity, embodied.

Every guest brought something that lit up the space. Not just their materials and travel bags, but their laughter, their questions, their willingness to show up exactly as they were.

And it reminded me of this week’s SoulCircle essay prompt from Beth Kempton:

Generosity.

At first, I wasn’t sure what to write. I thought about time and energy, about giving and receiving. But when I really sat with the word, I kept returning to the students I’ve met through my retreats and courses. The ones who continue to share their creativity in ways that inspire me long after a workshop ends.

One of them, Sunny Yoo, recently hosted a pop-up art show in San Francisco. She’s begun offering prints of her work and just launched a beautiful new website and shop. She came to my France retreat, and she just keeps painting—bright, colorful, fearless work.

Another artist, Gentry Woodward, also joined me at my France retreat and has been painting the most soulful, radiant portraits of women ever since.

I’m now lucky to call these retreat guests friends—and watching them share their gifts so boldly makes me want to keep going, too.

That, to me, is generosity:

Not just what we give—but what we awaken in each other.

It might start with something small. A napkin. A conversation. A painting. But when we offer it with heart, it expands. It connects. It keeps going.

So this week, I’m celebrating the artists, writers, and dreamers who are sharing their voices and stories—quietly, steadily, beautifully. I’ll be highlighting a few of their pieces in my Substack Notes and on Instagram stories, and I hope you’ll check them out and support their work, too.

And I’d love to hear from you as well…

What are you writing and painting?

Have you recently shared something that felt vulnerable—but true?

We don’t always know how our work will land. But we do know this:

When we create from a place of love, others feel it.

And that kind of generosity? It changes everything.

With love and gratitude,

xo Juliette

All photos and artwork by Juliette Crane

This essay was originally published on my Substack, Living the Way of the Happy Painter.