Well, here we go. Another new year.
A little behind the calendar New Year, but leaning into the passing of the Lunar New Year — the Year of the Fire Horse. Stepping into my grown-up energy. Evolving deeply as an artist. I just launched a refined website, polishing the content, clearing up who I am and what I want to put out into the world.
I’ve been cleaning up remnants of last year. What a blur.
Every year I reorganize photos and media I’ve created — a ritual of looking back. As I moved through 2025 it hit me: I did so much. So much growth.
Inside the year it felt labor-intensive. A little monotonous. Challenging. If I’m honest, there were moments I felt like I was going nowhere.
I’ve been so used to painting quickly. Turning work out consistently. That instant satisfaction of making art, selling it, and doing it again. But last year was different. The start of big projects. Project management. Results not seen for months. Large scale. Collaboration.
Looking back — it was depth. Big proportions. Conversations. Expansion.
Dang. I am proud of me.
So here I am, moving into this year with even more big work on my plate.
I typically take January to hibernate — rest deeply, recalibrate, collect myself. Imagine where I want to go next. But this year I’ve been in the river of flow. Balancing rest with consistent, steady making. Giving myself space to arrive at completion with ease and grace — not burnout, not stress, not left empty.
Toward the end of 2025 I secured a grant through ArtX to create large painted panels designed to be changed by the seasons, nature, and weather. I invited in a partner for this work — Kate Watters, a fellow plant friend and creative I deeply admire. She writes the poetry. I paint the panels using inks made from native plants.
Together we offer Ephemeral Bloom, coming to the Arboretum in April 2026.
This work has been intense. Constant sourcing of materials. Making the inks. Then getting right to the making.
I began in late October, gathering golden aspen leaves, catching the last remnants of warm color, hunting down the final blooms of rabbitbrush and any plant still willing to give pigment. Through winter I’ve worked with dried materials and roots. Long days in the kitchen — witchy in all the ways — then heading to the gallery (my winter studio) to intuitively and mindfully apply pigment. Everything in careful consideration of timing.
At the same time, I secured a few other grants.
One to extend a mural I painted last summer — expanding the site further. That will come to life in May (currently on hold). And another through the Arizona Commission on the Arts to create my first solo exhibition outside of my own gallery space, landing at Coconino Center for the Arts. A show called Interwoven, centered on our deep interconnection with plants and the natural world.
Two projects with similar threads. I find myself weaving between them.
I went into the end of 2025 feeling like I had a solid plan. Direction was there. Just move through the motions.
Then I sat down with a friend and mentor — another installation artist — and something shifted. Not drastically. But there was a call to create more boldly. Differently. To push my edges. To be bigger.
So I pivoted.
Now I’m balancing it all — weaving between projects — aiming to land everything in April. No full winter rest this year, but I take the snow days as they come. Signs of stillness. Invitations to align with the rhythms that are always there.
I have gone deep into color. Into pigment. Into what it means to be fugitive.
I have fallen in love with hibiscus. Have you ever been in love with a color? Experiments have been the path — trial, error, and small victories.
I finally got to make my own bone black.
Yes. Really.
I found elk vertebrae in the forest — remains returned to the land — and placed the bones in my wood stove until they charred completely black. The process felt primal. Reverent. A deep honoring of the animal — the paths it walked, the years that formed those bones, the life lived before its final days.
To alchemize that into pigment. To create something new from it. What an honor.
I made block-printing ink from the bone black and began making deliberate marks. There is life in this work. Stories, if you listen. Each pigment, each mark holding life and death and transformation.
Then dried pomegranate flowers found their way to me. What a flirty color. Hovering between pink and burnt orange. Seductive and sweet.
Marigolds — sacred, sun-soaked. Like painting with sunlight itself.
And then so many native plants. A long list of things I’ve wanted to understand — now I am in it. Learning relationship, not just chemistry. Their medicine. Their folklore. Their steadiness. Their softness. The vibrancy of their color frequency.
Navajo tea was a surprise. The most incredible orange. And when you drink it — another sweet gift.
Which brings me to now.
Still in it.
Last week, before a big storm rolled in, I did a test panel. I tend to lean toward optimism. I placed the canvas outside, tied between two of my favorite trees in the backyard. It felt ritualistic. Like an offering to the gods of time.
The rain came that night.
All I could do was surrender.
When I woke the next morning — change had come. More than I expected.
Is it failure? Or a great succeeding?
We’ll see.
What comes next — stay tuned.
These pigments and work take time, plants, and a bit of wild devotion.
If you’d like to support the work, you can do so here: Venmo: @Jill-Sans-1
Thank you.