Unveiling Kenlyn Stewart: The Independent Artist Transforming Playing Cards into Works of Art

Welcome to Hawk-IT Interviews! Today, I’m excited to introduce a special guest who is new to our Q&A series—independent artist Kenlyn Stewart, the creative mind behind Cards of Wonderment. a collection of truly unique playing card decks.

What first caught my attention was her incredible artwork and the way she transforms ordinary cards into something imaginative and expressive in her own way. In this interview, we dive into her journey—from her upbringing and what sparked her interest in poker, to building her own creative business, Cards of Wonderment and much more.

I hope you enjoy getting to know Kenlyn as much as I did and find inspiration in her story and artistry.

Amit Ahuja: To start at the very beginning of your story, can you take us back to your earliest years and describe what life was like growing up? What kind of environment shaped you—your hometown, the culture, the people around you? What memories stand out when you think about your childhood and teenage years, and emotionally, how would you describe that period of your life?

Kenlyn Stewart: I was born in Phoenix. A few years later we moved to Santa Monica. Funny twist: the apartment was on Stewart Street, which eventually became my last name. At that time, I was an Erickson. My mom was making art and selling at outdoor art shows in Los Angeles while my dad was studying engineering at UCLA. My clearest memories of him, however, involve stage lights, opera music, and theatrical chaos. He was always in a play or an opera, and one time suggested they cast me, as the daughter of a gypsy-looking peasant when I was about four. Imagine being that age and suddenly standing onstage, pretending to belong to another family, another century, while enormous voices filled the room. It was magical. Far more memorable than the standard “Dad comes home, we eat dinner” storyline.

My mother, meanwhile, was not your average housewife, but I can honestly say that outside of making art, she practiced everyday creative rebellion. One summer afternoon I asked how long until Halloween. “Months!” she said… then added, “Or we could just have it today, five minutes later, I had rallied the neighborhood four-year-olds. My mom turned bedsheets, scarves, and random clothing into wildly dramatic costumes. We made paper masks, and she played the witch, complete with a suspiciously bubbling pot on the stove in the kitchen for effect. My friends were wide-eyed and awestruck. “Is it really okay to have Halloween today?” they whispered. “Absolutely,” I assured them, “My mom said so.” So off we marched through the apartment complex in mid-July, trick-or-treating like tiny renegades. To their credit, the neighbors played along. Apples, pretzels, stray candy bars, a heroic Hershey’s Kiss or two, everyone contributed to our seasonal confusion. We returned home triumphant… until there was a knock at the door. One mother stood there, deeply unimpressed with our rogue holiday. Her child was required to march back through the building and return the loot. The other parents? Apparently fine with spontaneous Halloween. And that’s the thing about childhood memories: it’s rarely the tidy routines that stick. It’s the oddball moments, the opera stages, and the hot July Halloween rebellion. Those little disruptions quietly teach you something useful: tradition is lovely… but curiosity is essential for the creative spirit. And sometimes the best holidays are the ones you invent yourself.

While we lived in Santa Monica, my mother was busy doing something slightly heroic: supporting the family and putting my dad through UCLA, by selling her artwork. Back then, Wilshire Boulevard still had open fields. My mom and two artist friends convinced a nearby hotel to let them run extension cords across the grass so they could light up their paintings at night. Every Friday they’d set up their outdoor gallery, wait for people to get off work, and start selling art under the evening sky. Legendary movie stars were often curious and would walk up, ask questions and occasionally buy a painting. I do remember commenting to my mom that Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes did have a hint of purple in them, unlike anything I’d ever seen or have seen since. My mother could paint anything.

Seascapes flew off the walls, along with portraits of women and children and sweeping landscapes. But the boldest thing she did was give me my own little display easel. I was about 3 1/2 at the time. I didn’t start experimenting with oil paints on Masonite, until I was 4. She handed me a receipt book and told me my pen-and-ink drawings might sell for 25 cents each. She later admitted she feared I wouldn’t sell any, risking my fragile confidence, but she decided to take the gamble. One afternoon she called me down from the hill where I was playing. “You have a sale!” A doctor was standing there pointing to two of my sailboat drawings. “How much?” he asked. “Twenty-five cents each,” I said with the confidence of someone who had clearly never paid rent. “I’ll take both.” I pulled out the thumbtacks, I scribbled a receipt, and handed over the masterpieces. I was ecstatic. In that moment a decision quietly locked into place: I’m going to be an artist, and I’m going to live off selling my art. And somehow… I did. Life was exciting: I started drawing at three and a half, and by four painted my first oil painting, which has become the Three of Clubs in my legacy deck. Those early successes planted the seed.

When kindergarten rolled around, we moved to Malibu, about eight miles up a canyon with a sweeping view, a small, rented house, and a donkey that came with the property. As if that weren’t enough, the landlord lived quietly in our basement with his wife, except for the occasional dramatic argument, after which she’d storm off toward the beach with a suitcase… and stroll back a day or two later like nothing happened. The landlord himself added a bit of local color. From time to time, he’d be arrested for riding our donkey naked up the canyon road. Looking back, I suspect alcohol was involved. Childhood is full of mysteries. Despite the eccentric neighbors, I loved that place. My best friend Donnie lived just down the road. Every afternoon his mother read us Winnie-the-Pooh before naps. I’d lie there staring at his bedroom wall, which was covered in illustrations from Charmin toilet paper ads, sweet faces of girls that my imagination upgraded into guardian angels watching over us. It might’ve been the first time I realized art on a wall could become a story inside your head.

Halfway between our houses was an abandoned gas station we were strictly forbidden to enter, which, naturally, made it irresistible. We’d sneak in and find old stools, a cash register, and a piano. To us it was a secret kingdom. Looking back, Malibu gave me three important lessons: explore freely, trust your imagination, and never underestimate the creative power of a place you’re not supposed to be in. For a kid with a pencil and a curious mind, it was paradise.

First grade brought a big shift: my parents decided I needed more kids and fewer donkeys, so we moved to the Los Angeles suburbs, first Newbury Park, then Thousand Oaks, where I spent my teen years. Suburban life meant bikes, skates, and roaming the neighborhood until the streetlights came on. My parents also threw legendary neighborhood parties, music, dancing, food, and adults laughing like oversized children. It quietly taught me something comforting: growing up didn’t mean giving up.

Around second grade my dad added two new subjects to my education, poker and the stock market. We played cards with Cheerios for chips, where I learned strategy, bluffing, and the art of a respectable poker face. One Halloween my parents even dressed as the King and Queen of Hearts. Naturally, I assumed that was the life plan: grow up, become the Queen of Hearts, and find my King. The stock market lesson was slightly less romantic. My dad sold me one share of U.S. Steel for $49, complete with a formal contract. Every day I tracked it in the LA Times as it climbed (thrilling) and dropped (horrifying). Months later it crawled back to $49 and I sold immediately. Lesson learned.

In sixth grade we moved again, and I had to start over at a new school. Terrifying, until a group of girls waved me over in the cafeteria on day one. We’re still friends more than 50 years later. The teen years, like most, were a swirl of emotions, but art kept me steady. I painted murals, taught papier-mâché classes in the summer, and spent time around my mom’s wonderfully eccentric artist friends, beatniks with bongos, paint-splattered studios, and lively conversations about life and art. My dad’s crowd introduced me to golf, which became another lifelong love. Looking back, art, nature, cards, golf, and a healthy dose of curiosity formed a pretty sturdy anchor through those turbulent years. Creativity was my life raft.

Amit Ahuja: With the perspective you have now, how do you think those early experiences influenced the person you’ve become? In what ways did your upbringing shape your values, mindset, resilience, and sense of identity? How do you see those foundational years reflected in the way you approach creativity, competition, and self-expression today?

Kenlyn Stewart: I believe my childhood quietly laid the groundwork for the artist, and curious human, I’ve become. My parents raised me in a house where questions were welcome, norms were negotiable, and new paths, creative, emotional, even spiritual, were fair game. I wasn’t shielded from real life, but I was encouraged to form my own opinions rather than borrow theirs. They taught me to steer through the world using both facts and intuition, and they celebrated imagination at every turn. Case in point: bedtime was 8 p.m. unless I was drawing, painting, or making something. Then the rules magically loosened. Apparently, creativity counted as a perfectly acceptable reason to bend the rules and stay up late. Looking back, it was their subtle way of nudging me into the arena of making things instead of just sitting in front of a television being entertained.

My parents believed in letting me experience the world hands-on, art, nature, fishing, backpacking, camping, even tending to the vegetable garden in the backyard. Curiosity wasn’t just encouraged; it was expected. They also slipped in early lessons about money and independence. Lemonade stands became experiments in pricing and marketing, and when I decided to host a full-blown backyard carnival, games, prizes, admission fee and all, they simply laid out the materials and let me run the show.

From the age of four I was encouraged to sell my artwork and keep a bank account. I saved until I could buy my first tiny black-and-white TV, $109, a small fortune in the mid 1960s. More than the television, it gave me something bigger: the sense that my ideas, effort, and decisions mattered.

The way I approach creativity, competition, and self-expression today is really an echo of those early lessons. My parents believed it was perfectly acceptable, necessary, even, to stay playful, to step back, recharge, and remember what truly matters. They taught me to treat others the way I hoped to be treated, but also to offer that same kindness to myself. When life got heavy, the remedy was simple: dive into something creative and let it pull you back into the light. Competition was encouraged, but losing was never a catastrophe, it was just part of the game. And when life threw something messy or unexpected our way, my parents had an unusual response: sometimes we celebrated. Random days off for adventure, surprise “holidays” for no reason at all, little reminders that joy is something you can choose. Those lessons stuck. Life can be chaotic, but with the right tools, and a bit of imagination, you can still navigate it with balance, gratitude, and a sense of possibility.

Amit Ahuja: Turning to poker, can you walk us through how your journey with the game first began? How were you introduced to it, and what immediately drew you in? What were those early games like for you—not just strategically, but emotionally? And when you competed in your first World Series of Poker event, what was that experience like? How did the atmosphere, pressure, and scale of the moment change your understanding of what it truly means to compete professionally?

Kenlyn Stewart: Poker continued to run quietly alongside my art career. It became another unexpected Life teacher. My dad introduced me to the game around age seven, not as gambling, but as a life tool. Poker, in his mind, taught strategy, intuition, reading people, making decisions on the fly, and learning to live comfortably with risk and competition, winning and losing. Letting go, is a lesson I remind myself of often in my everyday life. I remember his friends around the table, laughter, stories, camaraderie. I also heard the occasional frustration when the cards turned. Through it all, my dad stayed steady: cool whether he won or lost. That lesson stuck. Poker wasn’t just about the cards, it was about connection, learning how to win, how to lose, and still walk away feeling capable and in control.

In college, while my life revolved around art, painting, drawing, printmaking, art history, the truth is that there was almost always a weekly poker game quietly penciled into the margins. Art was the headline; poker was the clever footnote that kept showing up.

One moment still stands out as one of the bigger gambles of my life. I was sitting on the floor in a printmaking class at the University of California, Santa Barbara, assembling an 18×24 etching collage of the King of Clubs. The assignment was simple: make art about something you’re passionate about. Apparently, my subconscious had already connected the dots, art and cards were part of the same story, and they’d stay that way for the rest of my life. While working on that King of Clubs, I remember daydreaming about designing an entire deck of playing cards someday. As it turns out, that fantasy took a few decades to clock in… but it eventually did.

That same day, sitting on the studio floor fussing over that piece, I met the man I’m still married to. We knew each other for about three months, got married, and moved to Tennessee. We have our 50th wedding anniversary this year. Now that was the ultimate gamble. Luckily, luck, and a little intuition, were on my side.

Poker, I discovered early, was a kind of social rocket fuel. As an artist, it introduced me to people I never would’ve met inside my artist’s studio bubble. I met people from different backgrounds, different mind sets, sharing different stories. It sharpened my instincts and, occasionally, my patience. (A skill artists and poker players both desperately need.)

After my husband and I left California and landed in Knoxville, Tennessee, and he graduated with his MFA 3 years later, we eventually bought what most sensible buyers ignored, an old 1930s log cabin with drafty round logs but seductive charm. Naturally, we fell in love instantly. Forty-seven years later we’re still there. The original cabin became my art studio. We added on a main floor and a downstairs that eventually acquired something very important: a poker table.

Not long after moving in, I joined an all-women’s poker game hosted by a psychologist up the street. Five to seven of us met regularly, playing every wild-card variation imaginable. A trio of formidable women, mother and daughters, took the game very seriously. I learned a lot watching them play. One eventually began playing tournaments at the World Series of Poker, and suddenly that world didn’t seem so distant.

Curiosity got the better of me. Around a decade ago I dipped my toe into the tournament poker world, mostly Texas Hold’em. Two cards in your hand, five on the table, and a room full of people trying not to reveal what their faces are saying. It required strategy, psychology, nerve. My first tournaments were equal parts terror and fascination. With every bet, my hands were shaking. I felt wildly underqualified but jumping right into official tournaments that the World Series of poker put on turned out to be an excellent place to start learning and building confidence.

By 2017 I realized something amusing: my art life and my poker life had been running side-by-side for decades but had never actually met in real time. So, I introduced them. I decided to design one single deck of cards, an art biography disguised as a poker deck. I dug through old photographs of my art to track down missing artworks and pieced together images spanning from age four to seventy-one. The result wasn’t just a deck; it was a portable retrospective, a legacy project, a small tuck box holding sixty-plus years of personal artwork and stories. It’s the only deck I’ll ever design. One is plenty when it tells your whole life.

Today the worlds finally overlap. I bring the deck with me when I play tournaments, sometimes turning the experience into an accidental artist residency inside a casino. Between hands and late-night sessions, I write about the strange intersection of art, chance, poker and human behavior. And here’s the punchline: I’ve stopped wondering whether I belong at those tables. Turns out I do. Art built a creative confidence. Poker built a different kind of confidence, a confidence that grew outside my art studio. Artist, Poker player, same brain, different canvas.

Amit Ahuja: In your opinion, what truly separates a good poker player from a great one? Is it technical skill, emotional discipline, table presence, consistency, or something less tangible that only comes with time and experience?

Kenlyn Stewart: Poker, like art, demands craft. You study the odds, practice emotional discipline, and learn the subtle art of table presence. None of it is ever perfected; it’s more like a lifelong rehearsal where the script keeps changing. And then there’s luck, the unruly co-star no one can fully control. In every tournament I’ve cashed, discipline and strategy carried most of the weight. But somewhere along the way there were also one or two wildly fortunate moments that arrived completely unexpected. Poker has a sense of humor like that. The trick is recognizing those moments and capitalizing on them. When a big pot lands in front of you and the chips start stacking up, the real test begins. More chips don’t mean less pressure they mean more responsibility.

Suddenly the game asks for sharper strategy, deeper focus, and the willingness to pivot when the table dynamics shift. That’s when all the studying, analyzing, and quiet observing finally earns its keep. You start reading people, their rhythms, their tells, the tiny giveaways they thought no one noticed. They’re there, often hiding in plain sight. The irony is that the better you get, the simpler the mission becomes: know when to fold, know when to risk everything, and never get so tangled in calculations that you miss the obvious. In the end, for me, art and poker share a curious blend of skill, patience, risk, strategy, and a little humor about the whole affair.

You simply get better at telling the story you want your audience to believe…while keeping the truth of your cards, or symbolism of your art, politely to yourself. Kind of an important life lesson.

Amit Ahuja: Your passion for poker eventually led you to design your own playing cards. Let’s go back to the beginning of Cards of Wonderment. When did the idea first take shape, and what inspired you to pursue it beyond just a concept? What personal or creative drive pushed you to turn it into a brand? And what does the name Cards of Wonderment represent to you—how does it capture your artistic philosophy?

Kenlyn Stewart: The seed for Cards of Wonderment was planted back in 1976 during a printmaking class. The assignment was simple: make art about something you care about. I chose the King of Clubs. Apparently, my subconscious already knew where this was going. Somewhere between finishing the King of Hearts and starting that King of Clubs, a mischievous idea wandered in: What if I designed my own deck of cards someday?

At that moment I had completed two of the required fifty-two cards. Excellent progress… if your timeline is measured in geological eras. Then graduation arrived, along with real life, marriage, a move to Tennessee, and the practical business of paying rent. I made art people wanted to buy, did art shows and built a career. Meanwhile the dream of designing a deck of cards was carefully placed on a very high shelf in what I like to call my dream closet.

Forty-one years later, in 2017, I climbed back up there and pulled it down. This time the idea had matured. Instead of designing a deck in a year or two, I decided to turn it into a lifetime project, using artwork spanning decades to tell my story through the language of cards. Each image would also carry four words: prompts for curiosity, journaling, meditation, or whatever mysteries the reader felt like chasing that day. One card at a time, I reconstructed old artwork, reframed it, and occasionally took generous artistic liberties. Pieces from different eras of my life began speaking to one another in a language I hadn’t fully noticed before.

Near the finish line came a small plot twist: the original name, Cards of Wonder, was already taken. Mild panic ensued. Then, during a friend’s birthday celebration, I mentioned my dilemma. He paused, looked around the room like a man consulting invisible muses, and said, very calmly: “Cards of Wonderment.”

Problem solved. Genius friend forever appreciated.

What emerged from this long adventure is less a product and more a legacy project. If you include the artwork itself, the deck took an entire lifetime to create. It’s an art retrospective disguised as something wonderfully ordinary: a deck of playing cards.

Because that’s the thing about cards. Almost every home has a deck tucked somewhere in a drawer. And those decks quietly collect history, late-night games, family laughter, friendly rivalries, strangers becoming friends across a table. They hold stories. So, taking artwork that once hung politely behind glass and letting it live inside a deck of cards feels oddly perfect. The images can now travel, be shuffled, handled, argued over, reflected on, and occasionally used to spark a completely unexpected thought or conversation. Which, to me, is exactly what art can also do. Not just sit on a wall looking important and being important but wander out into the world and join the conversation.

Amit Ahuja: More broadly, what initially inspired you to design playing cards in the first place? Was there a specific moment when you realized this medium was something you wanted to commit to seriously? What makes playing cards uniquely compelling to you compared to other artistic formats?

Kenlyn Stewart: Poker, and art kept reminding me of the same trio of skills: a little strategy and aggression when the moment calls for it, patience (especially with yourself), and the grace to adapt when the game changes, which it always does. Master those nuances and wonderful things happen. Sharing my life’s artwork along with special descriptive words onto a deck of cards was intriguing and playful. The cards are a kind of canvas I had never considered before. They freed me up to share decades of life stories and lessons while still allowing people to bring their own wisdom and stories to this card experience. They can be collected, played with, used to prompt insightful journaling sessions and even to meditate with. The cards act as a bridge to new and interesting connections with yourself and others. Cards have existed for hundreds of years and have a rich and varied history of engagement. I feel like my cards can open new fun and unexpected explorations for our minds and hearts. These cards are a tool to unplug from our chaotic lives and invite us to believe our next hand dealt just might deliver the hope and mystery, we didn’t know we needed.

Amit Ahuja: Can you describe your complete creative process—from initial sketches or mood boards to the final printed product? How do your concepts evolve over time, and how do you decide when a design is finished rather than simply “good enough”?

Kenlyn Stewart: I didn’t sit down and neatly design this deck, of course not. I went digging instead. Slides, photos, pieces scattered from age four to seventy-one… some in my hands, some in my family’s, and a few tucked away with collectors who required a bit of detective work. That’s where things got interesting. Turns out, chasing your own past can be a greater adventure than your fertile artist’s imagination could ever dream up.

I’m telling each card’s story slowly on Substack, organically, as life nudges me. Before heading off to this poker tournament, Feb or 2026, I got a call that an old Knoxville landmark, Freezo, was up for sale and might disappear after 50 plus years. That did it. Freezo, my Five of Diamonds, the batik artwork I did in 1984, and is still hanging up high in my kitchen, became my pocket companion for the week, hardly a lucky card, which made it even more appealing.

Amit Ahuja: What do you personally enjoy most about designing playing cards? Is it the freedom to create, the technical precision required, the storytelling aspect, or the connection you build with your audience through your work?

Kenlyn Stewart: This unique, once in a lifetime deck turned out to be less of a finished product and more of a curious little machine for wonder. I designed each card to carry four words, that I carefully chose, to tempt the imagination and invite intuition to pull up a chair while I meditate or journal using the cards. Some mornings I ask a question and draw a card. Sometimes three, occasionally I draw five, because subtlety is overrated. I borrow a word from each and let my mind wander. And here’s where things get interesting. The answers that show up on the page are often strange, sideways, and occasionally uncanny, as if the cards enjoy nudging thought into places, it might never have politely visited on its own. Apparently, logic is useful, but imagination is where life’s mysteries and secrets unfold.

Amit Ahuja: Symbolism often adds layers of meaning to art. How important is symbolism in your designs? When incorporating hidden details or layered imagery, how do you ensure those elements enhance the story without overwhelming the overall aesthetic?

Kenlyn Stewart: What I love most is the symbolism party happening on every card. The artwork tells one story, the suit and number whisper another, and somewhere between the two a completely new narrative appears. That is why I chose the most ordinary canvas imaginable: a standard deck of playing cards. Fifty-two slots. Fifty-two stories. Two wise jokers. Conveniently, I had many decades of artwork waiting for a reunion. Images that once lived quietly behind glass are now out in the wild, shuffled, touched, reconsidered, occasionally interrogated. A carefully curated art history of my works can now be shared with the world and travel in a pocket. I just like that.

Instead of treating each piece as a lone survivor hanging quietly on a wall, I gathered them into a deck, a kind of visual autobiography. Every card became a page from my life’s story: the triumphs, the detours and symbolism from the everyday moments that quietly shaped me through these decades.

The reality is that cards don’t behave like pages in a book. They shuffle. They rearrange themselves. They invite new combinations and new interpretations every time they hit the table. That freedom changed the work. Old images were revisited, reframed, and occasionally given a gentle artistic nudge to reflect who I am now, not just who I was when the piece was created. Each card became a small fusion of past and present, mysteries and secrets. Then I added four descriptive words, little sparks meant to ignite imagination and conversation.

Spread the deck across a table and suddenly the artwork can be touched, turned, reconsidered. The stories start talking to each other. Which is exactly the point.

This deck isn’t just a collection of images. A lifetime's connections formed, card by card. A legacy project, yes.

Mid-first tournament, the Mini-Main, I’m dealt two red fives. Freezo, paired up. Still not impressive for a No Limit Texas Hold’em tournament. I stay in anyway, mostly on instinct, Freezo whispering from my coat pocket, maybe a little stubbornness. The 3 card flop, all players share. Two more fives and a 9. Suddenly I’m sitting on four of a kind, pretending to be calm while chaos unfolds around me. Big bets, bigger egos, and me quietly holding the winning hand. I follow the big betters and go all in. They follow. I flip my cards, a gasp, game over, I beat out two Full Houses that would otherwise typically win any day.

Before the dealer could sweep it all away, I tossed my oversized Five of Diamonds on the table and snapped a photo. The table went quiet, then curious. No tricks, just one card in my pocket, doing its thing.

That’s the process. Each card has a past, a present, and apparently a bit of attitude today. I carry one at a time and see what shows up. This week the Five of Diamonds! It showed up loud and miraculously paid for my trip. I’m finding the art from my past, armed with serendipity, is cleverly finding an unexpected role to play in the present.

I like to think the images spark personal symbolism, but not necessarily mine. The real fun is watching someone else bring their own history, traditions, superstitions, and private mythology to the table. When they read the words and study the image, they’re not just seeing what I meant… they’re seeing what they need. The meaning quietly reshapes itself to fit their story, their dreams. Shuffle the deck and it can turn into a slightly uncanny little adventure. Every card carrying its own mythology… and a bit of secret magic tucked in the corners.

Amit Ahuja: Reflecting on your journey, who are three individuals who have had a profound influence on you—artistically, professionally, or personally? What did each of them teach you, and how do their lessons continue to guide you today?

Kenlyn Stewart: I would have to say the three individuals who profoundly influenced me artistically, professionally and personally would have to be my dad, Ken Erickson, my mom, Marilyn Erickson, and an artist my mom studied under. She traveled to weeklong seminars to study under Frederick Taubus and always brought me with her.

My dad introduced me to poker, golf, and music, but the real lesson wasn’t in what he said. It was in how he lived. Curiosity, according to him, wasn’t optional. Life had too many interesting corners to ignore. Ongoing learning was a lifestyle choice.

At one point he even took classes in hypnosis and, yes, practiced on me before big exams packed with a million things to memorize. I never understood how it worked… I just know the next day I’d cruise through those tests like I had cheat codes for my brain. Dad taught me to be fearlessly curious, to think outside the box, believe outside the box, and occasionally live completely outside the box. Which makes it slightly perfect that this whole legacy project, my life told through paintings and drawings, ended up inside one. A traditional tuck box… carrying a very untraditional story.

My mom’s influence was art, but not the tidy, careful kind. She believed in experimentation: new materials, messy mistakes, paint on your hands, chaos on the table. The rule was simple, explore boldly and see what surprises show up. Those “happy accidents” often became the most interesting part of the work… and, as it turns out, of life too. She also taught me to pay attention, to sunsets, leaves, birds in flight like quick gesture drawings across the sky. Nature wasn’t just scenery; it was fuel for the imagination. She also had a playful rebellious streak. The woman once gave me permission to celebrate Halloween in the middle of summer, because why not? Life lessons mixed with a little mischief and a lot of joy. Between hikes, camping trips, and endless curiosity about the natural world, she shaped both my art and my spirit. Which is probably why my parents ended up as one of the Jokers in my card deck. I’ll never forget the year she painted playing card costumes so they could go to a Halloween party as the King and Queen of Hearts. To a six-year-old kid, they were life-size playing cards… and something close to magic.

The third major influence in my life was Frederick Taubes, a man who taught the old masters with one hand and quietly handed you permission to dream with the other. Yes, there were the classics: oil painting, gesture drawing, portraits, still life, and landscapes. The technical stuff. But the real lesson was the invisible ingredient, imagination. Your feelings, your instincts, your strange internal weather… all fair game for the canvas.

When one day he let me set up my own easel alongside the other students to paint the classroom still life, I felt ten feet tall. Seen. Heard. Like I had just been handed a backstage pass to the life I was meant to live.

One afternoon, age 5, pretending to be asleep on the couch, I overheard him tell my mother, “Make sure she draws from life… that wild imagination won’t last forever.”

Well. That was adorable. That is when I made a quiet, stubborn little promise to myself: Oh yes it will. And I’ve kept it. I still drag that imagination everywhere, with my art, my poker playing, my decisions, my connections with people, animals, nature. Intuition and imagination turned out to be my power tools in life.

Between my father, my mother, and Taubes… I had an excellent starter kit for a colorful life lived slightly outside the lines.

Amit Ahuja: Outside of poker and card design, what other creative mediums inspire you? Are there particular films, books, shows, podcasts, or visual artists that deeply resonate with you? What elements of their work—emotional depth, narrative structure, visual style—fuel your own creativity?

Kenlyn Stewart: Film-wise, my taste is all over the map. I love wandering into independent film festivals just to see what strange, brilliant things new filmmakers are cooking up. The creativity is unpredictable, a little wild, and honestly, pretty intoxicating.

Right now, I’m collaborating with a talented indie filmmaker named Sam Comer and photographer Jim Wells on a couple of short films for my website. This one will feature my friend, Chase, performing magic tricks with my very non-traditional card deck. Turns out inventing magic with a deck that refuses to behave like a normal deck is its own creative adventure. Sam will film it, cut it, add music, pure art for art’s sake. Cards for cards’ sake.

I also have a soft spot for the classics, black and white films, a little Alfred Hitchcock suspense, the charm of The Wizard of Oz, and the quiet beauty of the French film Babette’s Feast, which just happens to celebrate one of my lifelong themes: meaningful connections, often formed around experimenting in the kitchen, stories, and a shared table.

As for podcasts, two sit high on the list. The Moth, where real people tell very real stories to a live audience. Raw, funny, vulnerable, sometimes heartbreaking. And Hidden Brain, which scratches my curiosity about human nature, how we think, what we value, and why we humans do the strange things we do. Fascinating creatures, us. I listen to a handful of poker podcasts. I enjoy listening to and reading books. Spending time in nature fuels my creative juices more than anything.

Amit Ahuja: Finally, as we wrap up, what message would you like to share with your supporters and with anyone working toward a dream of their own? Is there a belief, lesson, or insight that feels especially meaningful to you at this stage of your journey?

Kenlyn Stewart: As Joseph Campbell famously said, “Follow your bliss.” In other words, pay attention to the things that light you up and refuse to leave you alone. Writing, music, theater, dancing, cooking, knitting, performing, gardening… whatever it is, that’s where the good stories are hiding.

Give yourself permission to explore, experiment, make a mess, get it wrong a few times. Chaos is often just creativity wearing comfortable clothes. Somewhere in there, the answers tend to show up.

Don’t overlook the real source material: meaningful connections, with people, animals, nature, and yourself. That’s where the best stories hide. Trust your instincts most of the time. Trust your imagination whenever possible. It tends to know things before you do. Never stop learning.

One of the most interesting lessons I’ve learned later in life is the magic of collaboration. After spending decades of solitary time in my studio working on one piece at a time, I realized I had reached a point with this project that I needed to reach out to other creative artists. Spending time with talented, curious, experimental people, and inviting them into your project, can take your work to places you simply can’t reach alone.

My website, cardsofwonderment.com along with the actual printing of the card decks would not exist without the brilliant friend, photographer, design and print wizard Jim Wells. Finding people who not only understand your vision but light up about it, and want to roll up their sleeves and join you, is priceless. Those are the people who turn a good idea into something far more interesting than you could have pulled off alone. Along the way I also worked with a gifted videographer named Sam Comer, a young model who showed up with talent well beyond her years, Sunshine Whitaker and a composer who wrote original music for every card in the deck, Jacob Dozier. Through poker I even met a friend finishing his PhD in theoretical math, Joshua Siktar. So naturally I hired him to calculate the odds of certain words appearing during a five-card meditation. The results were fascinating. I also brought on board an insightful and fun to work with editor from England, Brandy Wells, who helped sharpen my words as she helped guide me to print and to express myself on my website. I had friends patiently listen to my endless “What do you think of this?” moments, who I am forever grateful for.  Next up is Chase Burton, a magician friend from my Monday night poker league, who’s been turning my nontraditional art cards into actual magic tricks. A video of his magic is coming to my website soon.

The point is simple: art may begin alone, but it gets far more interesting when you invite other minds to the table. Collaboration has a way of turning a good idea into something beyond magical.

Every morning, I repeat a small personal mantra to myself: May today hold more loving and connecting… and a little less judging and correcting.

This is meant not only towards others, but towards me, as well. Judgment has a sneaky way of popping up uninvited, even in my own head. But aiming for more connection than correction? That tends to keep my compass pointed in a pretty decent direction and is some of the best advice I can offer.

Amit Ahuja: Thank You So Much, Kenlyn Stewart for sharing your story with us today?

Please visit the Kenlyn Stewart website Cards of Wonderment below if you're interested in buying your own deck of cards and supporting her work.

https://cardsofwonderment.com/

***All photographs are credited to Kenlyn Stewart***