How chickens hatched an artist’s voice

I didn’t set out to make chickens part of my artistic identity. They simply showed up – first in my life, then in my sketchbook, and eventually in my work. Like most meaningful things, they arrived quietly and stayed insistently.

I was a nurturer long before I had language for it. Since I was a child, I have always loved animals. My first chicken came when I was very young, and from there, animals became companions, teachers, and mirrors. 

Chickens, in particular, fascinated me. They were expressive, social, dramatic, tender, ridiculous, and deeply ordered. If you’ve ever watched a flock for more than a few minutes, you know that they are not simple creatures. What I didn’t realize then was that chickens were training my eye and my voice.

Chickens are masters of body language. A tilt of the head, a puffed chest, a sideways glance – everything is communication. Watching them taught me to observe closely, to notice nuance, to pay attention to the unspoken. Those skills carried directly into my art practice. Whether I’m layering resin and oil or sketching a chicken mid-strut, I’m always looking for what’s happening beneath the surface.

As my work evolved, so did my relationship with humor. Chickens are funny without trying to be. They expose power dynamics without commentary, and they remind us how absurd we can look when we take ourselves too seriously. Somewhere between the pecking order and the dust baths, I realized that humor in art could coexist with depth.

Around the same time, my husband and I started speaking to each other in “clucks.” We were raising young children and trying not to curse, and somehow phrases like “mother clucker” became our shorthand for frustration, surprise, or disbelief. It was ridiculous – and it worked. Humor softened the moment and diffused tension. It gave us a way to say what we meant without saying too much.

That realization gave me permission, and my illustrated book Chickenisms: The Art of the Pecking Order, grew out of that. What began as playful drawings became a way to explore identity, hierarchy, insecurity, pride, and resilience – through wit instead of weight. Chickens allowed me to say things that felt too risky to say outright. They became stand-ins for our collective humanity, offering insight without accusation.

As a Memphis-based artist, my voice lives at the intersection of joy and honesty. It’s curious, observant, sometimes irreverent, and always rooted in connection. Chickens cracked that open for me. They taught me that art doesn’t have to shout to be heard – it can cluck or wink, and it can invite instead of instruct.

That voice now threads through everything I do, from my fine art practice and illustrated work to Jumpstart Art. The throughline is the same: close observation, layered meaning, and the radical choice to approach life with humor and care.

I still keep and watch chickens, and they still teach me – reminding me that creativity, and the artistic process itself, is often born in unlikely places. That voice doesn’t always arrive polished or planned; sometimes it hatches slowly, feathers first, confidence later.

And sometimes, if you’re lucky, it shows up wearing sunglasses and asking you not to take yourself quite so seriously.