Meet the 2026 humanized grotesque calendar—twelve unsettling yet captivating faces. Discover their stories and contact Jennifer S Jones to purchase your copy!

Before I paint an animal, I want to see it in person - not a picture or a video - in real life. Everywhere we go, we take a trip to the zoo. We have visited zoos all over the country.

I spent years hoping to go gray only to learn something deeper about art, life, and patience. This is a story about letting go of control and embracing the journey.

A museum visit reminded me of a college professor’s challenge: there are no new ideas, only new ways to see them. From shells and mollusks to a boomerang-headed amphibian, I found endless inspiration for future paintings—and a reminder that originality in art often begins with looking closely at what’s already around us.

Matt and I always visit the zoo wherever we travel, and Houston was no exception. The Galapagos Tortoises stole the show with their joyful splashing and surprising swimming skills.

Exploring the quirky world of Dumbo octopus and Blobfish as inspiration for my next underwater painting. Follow my creative process and sea creature discoveries!

Fantasy Coffins are hand crafted works of art from Ghana, designed to honor a life well lived. From flamingos to paintbrushes, the possibilities are endless. I am about to see the largest collection outside Ghana at Houston’s National Museum of Funeral History.

Abraham Lincoln’s eyes are fixed, but his mouth is misbehaving. George Washington’s collar surprised me. Jefferson finally has a chin. My Merry Men of Mount Rushmore painting is testing my patience, one dab of paint at a time.

Perspective is a funny thing. What looks like a whale tail to me might look like a snail to you. In painting and in life, the smallest details like the catch light in a monk’s eye can completely change how we see things.

President Lincoln is looking less like a terrified monster and more like himself—though his eyes are still a saga. Follow the slow irony of Merrymen of Mount Rushmore, painted in acrylic, stone faces with real eyes.

On a downtown Oklahoma City walk, I expected steps, not drama. Instead, I found a tiny bird in a puddle having the worst bath of its life. My Garmin buzzed, my steps stalled, and I stood there laughing. Sometimes, the best part of walking isn’t the miles—it’s the detours.

My Merry Men of Mount Rushmore painting is still wallowing in the ugly stage. Eyes are straight, heads are forming, and I’ve promised to keep at it—progress-ish.

As I wandered through the exhibit, I realized that most cooks (and creators) tend to fall into one of three distinct categories: The Recipe "Stickler" The Recipe "Guideliner" The Recipe "Free For Aller" Each style reflects a different mindset. And while they can evoke everything from anxiety to exhilaration—let’s be honest—sometimes they’re also a recipe for disaster.

Quirky museums remind me inspiration is everywhere — even in the smallest, most unexpected places.

The stingray’s background is fixed, the colors are flowing, and it’s happier than ever. The only problem? This little guy (or girl) has no name.

My art—and how it's interpreted by others—has especially taught me to appreciate different perspectives. Something I see as a whimsical robot might look like a propane tank to someone else. Or a rock shark to me might just be a pile of granite to another. And that’s okay.

Looking back at my earliest works compared to the newest, I was genuinely surprised. You know you grow as an artist but seeing it all side-by-side was like discovering my old middle school diary… a little embarrassing, but fascinating.

They say once a painting is finished, you should walk away. I say… let’s grab a brush and see what happens.

Valerie was all in, hunting down the perfect mosaic design for her frame. Meanwhile, I decided that instead of working on my pad plant frame, I would swap out the window in my half-bath with a sea-themed mosaic instead. Matt’s only rule: “No flamingos, for heaven’s sake!” So naturally, I went underwater—sea turtles, fish, seaweed, and none of those pink feathered party crashers.

That’s the thing about making art - inspiration doesn’t show up on command. Sometimes it hits like lightning. Other times, it sneaks in quietly while you’re folding laundry or wondering what to make for dinner. It’s unpredictable, a little wild, and occasionally rude.