I make Flux cards. Each is a pocket-sized prompt for play.

Ten squares. Ten images. You perform the art.

Each image is a nudge. An airplane? Maybe you fly around the room, arms wide, making jet noises. Or you fold a paper plane and see how far it goes. Or you just stare out the window and watch one glide across the sky.

Your call.

The goal: spark your imagination. Don’t get stuck on what the image “means.” It’s a push, not a rule. The card gives you a start, but where you take it is yours.

You mark each square when you perform it. Pen. Punch. Rip. Whatever. There’s something satisfying about it. Like hole punches on an old bus pass. Proof you did the thing.

In the 1960s, some Fluxus artists mailed “event scores” on postcards to strangers. Simple acts like “Clap once. Wait. Clap again.” Art as everyday action. Your life, your gallery.

Each Flux card is handmade. I use mini stamps to fill the squares. No two are the same. Each one a little different. A little weird. Just like what you’ll do with it.

I gave a few to friends. They asked for more. They finished one. Wanted another. Then another. They got it.

The card isn’t the art. You are.