An Astrological Self Portrait

a landscape informed by my birth chart

by Barbara Bose

This illustration is based on the actual planetary degrees of my birth chart.

The choice of scenery represents each sign and in turn informs the landscape. The placement of the figures symbolizes each heavenly body and how they played out on my journey through life.

Now that I’m an elder, I can look back and better understand my own inner and outer landscape.

Ever wonder about how art and astrology can inform each other? I did, so I made this art piece as a figurative version of my astrological birth chart and included the literal version on an overlay using the actual positions of planets, the elements of the signs and their meanings.

It is informed by my astrological birth chart — the actual positions of the planets the moment I was born. But rather than explaining the astrology of it all, this story reflects how those patterns seem to have played themselves out over time.

(For a literal astrological analysis, I also wrote this explanation.)

Looking back now, I can recognize this terrain of the road I took, the currents that carried me, the ravines and mountains that challenged me, and the thresholds I have crossed — usually without fully understanding the plan at the time, though I knew in my kishkas it all had meaning. Some areas felt open and illuminated. Others were hidden, submerged, difficult to reach.

The image can be read as a circular journey, beginning on the left side (9:00), and moving counterclockwise, down and around. The 12 slices of pie represent aspects of living we encounter as we spiral around the sun over the years .

At the edge of the water, my family of origin (portrayed as bears), is back there, facing in different directions. There was and still is a lot of estrangement there. As the bear in the water, I reflect on all this. I think of it as my essential nature — self-contained, observant, and introspective. The shoreline is cool and spare, as there was much emotional restraint in my early life. But my waters moved on. I felt connected to something deeper, more fluid. When the entire image is read like a birth chart, this section is the place of first impressions (the first ‘house’). That is how my persona has often been experienced: reserved on the surface, but more emotionally accessible with time.

Further along, a female figure in the water sits with her top third visible, the rest unseeable. Her head emerges from folds of fabric that never fully reveal themselves, as if part of her belongs to something unknowable. Her hands have become restless creatures, each moving in different directions, each requiring attention. That was how I felt when my kids were little. My two girls were a big part of me, and life was in constant motion — raising them on my own, working, managing, holding everything together. There was no stillness. Only the ongoing pull of responsibility, care, and survival.

The landscape continues into the third house — populated with the combined power of Saturn and Mercury making a terrain of thought, language, beauty, effort, art, words, work, and meaning intertwine. I spent years immersed in communication — newspapers, magazines, design, later a book about my family — learning how to shape ideas into form. A little farther, a deeply rooted lotus with an eye in it floats along. Beneath the activity was something deeper: a need to understand, to articulate, to bring hidden things into the open. I’ve always been like that, certain there is more to it all.

At the center of the composition stands a large tree — anchoring everything. Its roots divide the landscape, reaching into multiple terrains at once. A central axis where all parts of life converge.

From this central space, the image moves into more difficult territory. There are things partially hidden here — visible, but not fully. Not acknowledged. A bottle appears behind the curtain, but what it contains is not what it seems — clear water, not scotch and water.

Where the 4th house begins. a stream rushes toward steep cliff — a drop off into the unknown. This area carries the weight of my early life: an ungrounded family and a need to navigate forces beyond my control. Nearby, a ladder descends into a ravine — my exit, but not an easy one. There was a choice: leave behind what was given and give up art, or find another path, even if it meant going alone. I took the hard but creative road through work and persistence.

Further on, the landscape opens into a field — green, fertile, full of potential. This is the fifth house realm of creativity, expression, a mark in the world. And yet, it is not uncomplicated. I had to climb here, always on the outside. It took many took the steps there.

A dark bird stands guard over a table where a meal has been set, but not fully enjoyed. The elements are there — nourishment, sweetness, possibility — but something is unsettled, incomplete, precarious.

This part of the image carries a wound. One that does not fully heal.

I can see now how much of my life has moved through this space — through art, through love, through loss. There is a strawberry cut in three pieces which should have been enjoyed. Without a plate, the sweet syrup makes a mess. My estranged children are here, and part of its absence. The wound and the gift exist together.

From here, the landscape shifts again — into a realm shaped by change, adaptation to the digital world and the movement of time. Much of my working life unfolded in a rapidly changing space, and I had to continually learn, adjust, and move forward. There is a sense here of things reorganizing themselves, of patterns forming, dissolving, ever-changing, always creative.

Beyond that, the 6th and 7th house scenes open into a wide, nocturnal ocean. A low moon hangs over the water, casting a dim, reflective light. Waves break on the shore, and within them are faint impressions of faces, traces of lives and partnerships I knew and lived, memories both present and receding. There is quiet sadness here, and also acceptance that things change.

I understand that not everything or everyone can be held onto. Now there are absences that remain. But there is also plenty of sky and stars and light.

Above it all, a large hand extends across the sky — protective, steady, present. It shelters a towering tree where an owl rests, alert and watchful. This presence feels both personal and beyond me — something that has accompanied me, protected me, and allowed me to continue seeing the beauty.

The entire landscape is held within or touched by a kind of fabric — something that both conceals and reveals, connects and separates. It moves through everything, linking each part of the image to the others.

This is how I have come to understand my life. My birth chart is a map. A Triptik. Not a straight line, but a terrain with many layers, a mysterious source that envelops, spans, protects and reveals. I am from that fabric and part of it, as are all of the elements of life.