Jen Wellntiz' dining room table doubles as an office some days. For inspiration, she only has to gaze upwards at her chandelier light fixture vibrantly bedecked with dangling pysanky eggs to get the "pop" she needs.

Pysanky — intricately dyed and decorated eggs using a wax resist method similar to batik — represents a tradition as ancient as time in the Ukraine. Jen struggles to pronounce the word, as many do. One egg, or pysanka, is pronounced "PIH-sahn-kah. More than one egg, or pysanky, is pih-sahn-KIH.

With Lent and the Easter season upon us and Ukrainian political strife filling news cycles, it seems only fitting to pay attention to an art form that offers historical ties to bind together this conflict-torn country.

Lafayette artist Susan Blubaugh, who has taken the craft of psyanky several steps above ancient techniques, creates a veritable feast for the eyes in every vivid hue you can think of —— fuschia, turquoise, emerald, amethyst purple, ruby red, citrine orange — or all of those colors on one egg. Colorful designs may depict the Ukrainian legend of a pair of stags carrying the sun across the sky. Or they may zip across an ocean and half a continent to present motifs special to Native Americans in the American Southwest. Or they may go steam punk for Halloween.

"Pysanky are traditionally made during the season of Lent as an Easter greeting," Blubaugh says. "The oldest actual pysanka egg dates to 500 years ago. It is faded but still intact." Traditionally, religious symbolism blanket the eggs. Eight-pointed stars, referring to God, are commonly found. Netting in a design stands for the nets of Christ, the fisher of men.

"Any line that doesn't end is a symbol of eternity," Blubaugh says.

Since pysanky — from the Ukrainian verb "pysaty," meaning to write — dates back to pagan times, symbols such as the star and the net originally possessed different meanings. The star honored Dazhboh, the sun god, and the net constituted a prayer for a plentiful catch and a full stomach.

Pysanky were "written" with a stylus pen and hot wax for different reasons in different centuries. In ancient times, they were written to ensure fertility of the fields, for protection from catastrophes and various devils that might be lurking about. Pysanky were also written to be given as gifts to friends and family, or by young women to the young men they fancied.

Each village, and almost every family in Ukraine had its own special ritual, its own symbols, meanings and secret formulas for dyeing eggs. These customs were faithfully preserved and passed down from mother to daughter through the generations.

Today, this simple folk tradition with talismanic importance has evolved into a complex decorative art form. But it might not have survived into the 21st century in any relevant way, Blubaugh says, if it hadn't been for Ukrainian immigrants in America. When the Soviet Union took over Ukraine in the early 1930s under Stalin, religious activity was heavily discouraged and pysanky disappeared.

The art form "was kept alive by Ukrainians who had fled over the years to the United States, many to live in Minnesota," says Blubaugh. Once the country regained its independence in 1991, it was exported back to its birthplace.

"I don't have a drop of Ukranian blood or Eastern Europe either," Blubaugh says with a smile, trying to answer why the art form grabbed her heart with such passion 20 years ago. Having seen pictures of pysanky, she ordered a kit from a craft catalogue thinking it would be fun for her daughters, ages 6 and 8 at the time. When the kit arrived it only took a few minutes to say "nope … this is too complicated," and Blubaugh stowed it away.

Several years later it was retrieved from its hiding place and her kids enjoyed it. "After a week the kids were done with it. I was the one who got hooked. I had tried watercolors, oil painting, pottery but nothing really took until the eggs." She searched everywhere for articles and pictures, and each find pushed her creative buttons more.

A steady hand, a love of color and an insatiable curiosity are Blubaugh's biggest assets.

Temre Stanchfield, an artist in her own right, took a class from Blubaugh with her daughter Naomi and found it an eye-opening experience. "For me it was two things — the kind of detail she can achieve and that she can do easily. Amazing. I'm a painter, and I draw, but creating all that detail on a curved surface with this little stylus tool ... it was a humbling experience.

"It takes concentration to make them perfect. I am definitely in awe of what she does."

The degree of perfection in Blubaugh'sshiny finished eggs makes it hard to think of them as handmade, says Wellnitz, who became acquainted with Blubaugh's eggs through her sister-in-law Andrea Wellnitz. Andrea, Susan and Temre are all part of the Artists' Own art cooperative in Lafayette.

Jen, who lives in Wisconsin, got hooked on decorated eggs a handful of years ago when she visited an Easter market in Austria. "They were selling eggs decorated by Ukrainians, and there were just millions to choose from," she recalls. The ones she brought home started a family tradition of hanging them from the dining room chandelier. When her sister-in-law introduced her to Susan, Wellnitz was over the moon.

"Her eggs are just so precise. I go on Etsy all the time and look at eggs and always say 'No, I want Susan's eggs.' I am amazed at how difficult and challenging this art form is.

"I like the traditional designs but for me it's all about the colors. Some people like earth tones. Not me. Oh no, the gaudier the better — reds and greens that pop. I like that. I saw a blue-on-white egg on Etsy recently. It was pretty, but no, I've got to have that pop."

Currently she has 60 eggs in her collection and has no intention of requesting anything other than pysanky eggs as birthday and Christmas gifts. "I don't want to be that grandparent that gets a box of candy for Christmas. I want an egg and then I will have enough for my kids and grandkids to have their own egg chandeliers one day. Eggs are small. You can hang thousands of eggs."

Most often Blubaugh uses chicken eggs for her creations but is not limited to them. She has gotten ostrich eggs from the Columbian Park Zoo, has done dark green emu eggs on occasion and likes turkey eggs because of their teardrop shape.

She has been known to assemble the smoothest eggs from several cartons at the grocery store, with the store's blessing. Having a smooth surface is essential and light sanding, when needed, isn't out of the question.

Hundreds of years ago, dyes were made from onion skins, berries and walnut shells. Now Blubaugh uses highly penetrating analine dyes that result in brilliant jewel-tone colors. She has pioneered the use of alcohol in the analine dyes to create a striking marbling effect.

Pysanky always starts with inserting a hollow needle into the egg and using a little bellows to pull out the insides, then rinsing the egg out with water. Next Blubaugh free-hands the design, sketching with a stylus or kistka, a pencil type tool that holds beeswax. The first beeswax layer put down covers areas the artist wants to leave in white. Then the egg is put through a series of dye baths from yellow to black. Between each dye bath, more wax is applied to keep the color just achieved from being affected by future dye baths.

By the end much of the egg will be covered in wax and not very attractive. "The revelation is the most fun part of the process," says Blubaugh. The egg is held over a candle so the wax resist will drip off, revealing the beauty of the finished design. A final coat of varnish protects and makes them shine.

Creating the elaborate designs she is known for "takes a lot of practice," admits Blubaugh, who resists the notion of a formal studio. She likes to nestle into the comfy corner of her couch with the television or an audio book for company. It takes her about two hours to complete a chicken egg.

She has a library of more than 200 designs, many of them her originals, and it continues to grow each year. Stanchfield says, "As I became more familiar with traditional Ukrainian designs, I could see how she improvised and made her own patterns. I appreciate that. She has her own unique style with that craft."

It's rare these days for pysanky to serve as religious talismans. They exist simply as objects of great beauty.

And in the words of Emerson: "Beauty is its own excuse for being."

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