There’s something ancient in the way a castle sits in the landscape.
Part protector, part riddle.
They rise from mountains like dreams made of stone. Fortresses of solitude. Repositories of old magic. Sentinels guarding something just beyond reach.
In medieval art and folklore, castles were never just buildings. They marked the edge of the known world. To cross the drawbridge was to leave the ordinary behind and step into the realm of the sacred, the enchanted, or the dangerous.
Sometimes the castle was a refuge.
Other times, a prison.
But always, it was a threshold.
A Place Where Something Changes
This linocut was carved with that idea in mind.
Towering spires. A winding path disappearing into shadow. Mountains standing watch like ancient witnesses. I imagined a place where the veil is thin, where knocking on the door feels like asking a question of your own soul.
What do you seek when you seek shelter?
What power waits when you stand at the threshold?
Castles as Power, Symbol, and Mindscape
In the Middle Ages, castles served both functional and symbolic roles. They were fortifications, yes, but also centers of governance, culture, and myth.
To build a castle was to shape the land into something that could hold power. That power might be military, spiritual, or psychological. In many ways, the castle became an extension of the self.
Walls like skin.
Towers like senses.
The drawbridge like a mouth that could open or close.
Why Fairy Tales Begin at the Gate
There’s a reason so many fairy tales begin at a castle.
The heroine must enter it.
The knight must scale it.
The child must escape from it.
Castles mark the place where something changes. Where a spell is cast or broken. Where a transformation begins.
From Welsh folktales to Arthurian legend, castles act as portals. Some shimmer at the edge of vision. Some vanish in daylight. Others appear only to those who are lost, brave, or broken enough to see them.
They demand something of the seeker.
Will you approach?
Will you knock?
Will you cross?
Printmaking as a Threshold Practice
I think about these ideas often in the studio.
Printmaking itself feels like a threshold practice. Carving into a block is an act of removal, cutting away what doesn’t belong to reveal what remains. The press becomes a kind of gate, a liminal space where image and meaning are transferred from intention into ink.
When I carved this mountain fortress, I was also thinking about personal thresholds. Moments in my life when I stood at the edge of something unknown. Times when the walls I had built to protect myself might also have been keeping something important out.
Maybe you’ve felt that too.
Maybe you’re there now.
The Wisdom of the Fortress
This castle is a reminder that the place you fear might be the very place you need to enter.
The path is steep. The climb is slow. But you are not the first to walk it. And the door does not open without your hand.
We live in a world that praises speed, noise, and exposure. But there is wisdom in the fortress. In pulling back. In becoming still.
Solitude is not absence.
It is presence, intensified.
The castle invites you into that space. Not to disappear, but to remember.
Your edges.
Your story.
The voice that only echoes in silence.
A Cosmology in Stone
Some scholars believe castles held ritual significance beyond the practical. Their orientation, layout, and relationship to the land were often intentional.
High towers reaching toward the heavens.
Circular keeps echoing sacred geometry.
Moats mirroring the waters of rebirth.
In this way, castles were not just defensive structures. They were cosmological.
They reflected a vision of the world in miniature. Order shaped from chaos. The sacred nestled in the wild. The human aligned with the divine.
A Door, Not Just a Print
It’s easy to forget this symbolic language in the modern world. We build for efficiency, not meaning.
When I make prints, I try to return to that older rhythm. Where each mark carries weight. Where composition holds intention. Where a carved castle in the mountains becomes not just a landscape, but a map inward.
That is what I hope you feel when you hold this postcard.
Not just ink on paper.
But a door.
A pause.
An invitation.
So I’ll ask again:
What do you seek when you seek shelter?
What waits for you on the other side of the gate?
Want to linger here a little longer?
If this piece resonated with you, I share more reflections like this through my work and my email list. Stories of medieval symbolism, quiet thresholds, and the slow, intentional practice of making art by hand.