“Oh, your lines are good.” 

“They don’t feel good,” I reply, automatically, scrawling another wax trail into my hollowed-out egg. There are four lit candles on the table, filling the air with the faint smell of beeswax. I’m mostly picking up the burnt smell that’s become a familiar part of my Christmas card process: stamping a design into hot wax to seal my envelopes. It’s putting me in the festive mood. It’s a Saturday morning, and I’m one of the four participants who made the trek to Southport General Store for a four-hour workshop on pysanky: Ukrainian egg decorating.  

The origins of pysanky are unclear. According to Time Magazine, stories range from the tradition being a ritual representing the return of the sun after a long winter to a pre-Christian legend telling of a monster whose apocalyptic plans are only kept at bay by the production of pysanky. Our teacher Jean Lally says it's a way to “bind up evil” (seemingly favoring the latter story). That’s what her late mother, Barbara Lally, always told her, at least. Barbara died a year ago, and this sparks an instant connection between myself and Jean, as I lost my own crafty grandmother this time last year.  

Barbara was a “prolific” artist, and a master of pysanky, although she was not Ukrainian. Instead, she happened upon the technique in a cookbook back in the 70s and eventually became so proficient, she ended up on the cover of Yankee Magazine. 

An egg carton filled with Barbara Lally's creations is passed around as her daughter laments the shaky lines on her own example eggs. She doesn't have as steady a hand as her mother did. I don’t think anybody could. The eggs are covered in delicate grids, repeating plaids, and cresting Grecian waves. It’s more impressive when considering the designs weren’t etched with a nice thin paintbrush or fine-tipped Sharpie, but the traditional kistka: a wooden-handled stylus with a small funnel that drips black wax. It’s similar to a dip pen. Just as the pen must be refilled in an inkwell, so does the wax need to be continually reheated, hence the candles. 

The other difficulty is that pysanky is a “resist” process. For example, if the egg is dyed yellow, the areas the artist wishes to keep yellow need to be covered in wax, so they resist the next dye. This means not only thinking backwards but keeping in mind how different dyes will lay on top of each other.  

“Jean, what color should I do next?” becomes the question of the hour. Despite otherwise following the provided tutorial booklet to the letter, I’ve also decided to go off-road color-wise because I prefer cool tones and have an unfounded personal vendetta against orange (booklet recommended, or not). Light blue. Turquoise. Oh, that didn't work. Uh, dark blue. Black. A little snowflake starts to take shape.  

One of the attendees who also happens to be a painter is doing some sort of spiral pattern I’m frankly too intimidated to look at. Besides, I’ve got to the fun part up next, rotating the egg over the open candle flame to melt the wax off. 

I present my finished creation to appreciative oohs and ahhs. The group hadn’t even realized I was at the step yet. Someone remarks how quiet I have been. It seems I’d become so hyper-focused that I have barely spoken over the last two hours. Whoops.  

The second egg is where it all goes wrong. Like Icarus flying too close to the sun, I too am defeated by a mixture of hubris and wax. My free-handed leaves look awful. I melt them off and try again. I will discover later that this created a thin wax film that makes that part of the egg resistant to dye.  

“There’s always a solution,” Lally comforts. I could always fill in the area with a Sharpie?

Next, I forget color theory. My egg is placidly floating in raspberry dye when I remember that 1) I forgot to put wax on my leaves to preserve the green and 2) green and red don't mix and my holly berries are just going to end up brown.  

The classmate who did the spiral pattern is doing a full Christmas scene on her egg: tree, candy canes and a portrait of her horse Gabriel. But it’s fine. I can pivot to blue. I live in Maine; blueberries can be festive! The result is a minimal design with leaves and a random space-filler star that is two different shades of green, random blue dots, and a dark purple background. I could have kept it in the dye bath longer to achieve true black, but the purple reminded me of Easter egg dying with my grandmother and I felt sentimental.  

Meanwhile, my hands look like I’ve been in a horrible accident: blue, yellow and black stretching from my fingertips to my wrists. Examining my destroyed palms, I can’t help but conjure my grandmother again. She once told me, "If you’re not getting messy in the kitchen, you’re not doing anything,” and that phrase accurately sums up my pysanky experience.  

Messy and imperfect, but it’s something I did myself. And would I do it again? Yes, as long as I don’t have to hollow out the egg myself. Otherwise, a wooden one and acrylic paint might be the next best thing.  

Southport General Store will be finalizing next year's schedule for art workshops soon. Stay tuned.