I'm reading an incredible book about the Dust Bowl called The Worst Hard Time. It’s given me a much deeper understanding of the causes behind those devastating dust storms. One of the biggest factors was the widespread destruction of native grasslands. These grasses made up a complex, resilient ecosystem that naturally held moisture in the soil. But when settlers arrived and began plowing the land to plant wheat, they disrupted that delicate balance, leaving the soil exposed and vulnerable. The situation worsened when many of those farmers later abandoned their land, leaving it unprotected against wind and drought. I don’t blame them—they were doing what they could to build a life for themselves and their families. On this Fourth of July, I find myself feeling both grateful for the beauty of this country and my own ancestors, and deeply aware of how often we’ve neglected the very land that sustains us. Through my project, Dust to Apples: Colors of the Eastern Plains, I hope to inspire a renewed connection to the land—and encourage a deeper understanding of what it means to be responsible global citizens. Happy Independence Day. 
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Today I visited Berry Patch Farm, where Claudia, the farmer, greeted me with her usual calm but focused demeanor. The recent rains had delayed planting, and with 100-degree temperatures expected this weekend, she was racing to get everything in the ground today. Next, I headed just five minutes down the road to Red Daisy Farm. Meg welcomed me and gave me a tour in her golf cart. It’s a small, charming farm that grows and sells flowers. She also has three Airbnb rentals on the property. A serene pond—perfect for swimming or lounging on the shaded deck—sits beside a water feature where koi glide gracefully through the water. Meg is incredibly hardworking. Between planting, growing, harvesting, and delivering flowers, running her floral business, and managing three vacation rentals in Brighton (plus two more in Florida), her life is a constant, beautiful whirlwind.
Today I visited Robert Sakata, a farmer based in Brighton, Colorado. Robert is the son of Bob Sakata, the founder of Sakata Farms. After being imprisoned in a Japanese internment camp in Utah during World War II, Bob came to Colorado determined to build a new life. He began farming with cut flowers but soon transitioned to vegetables. Colorado’s dry climate proved ideal for growing vegetables, helping reduce the risk of fungal disease.
At its peak, Sakata Farms spanned 6,000 acres and employed 400 seasonal workers. However, the cost of housing that many employees for just an eight-week harvest season eventually made the model unsustainable. Robert pivoted to growing feed crops for livestock and now manages 2,500 acres with a team of 14 employees. This is just one example of the many challenges modern farmers face. Rising costs, rapid urban development, water rights disputes, and competition from larger out-of-state operations all place pressure on small and mid-sized farms. Additionally, many farms face uncertain futures as the current generation of farmers ages and younger generations often choose different paths. Robert is also the first-ever water advisor for Colorado’s Department of Agriculture. Speaking with him, I began to grasp the complexity of water rights and usage in our state. Colorado sits at the headwaters of several major river systems that feed much of the Western U.S. At the same time, the Front Range is experiencing rapid population growth, which puts increasing pressure on water resources. As suburban areas expand, the needs of urban development often clash with those of agricultural water use. When Colorado was first settled, most farms used flood irrigation. Today, many have transitioned to sprinkler systems and other more efficient irrigation methods. But even with advances in technology, the intersection of farming, water, and policy remains tangled and challenging.
Every time I visit, he welcomes me with a quiet, thoughtful tour of his land. He points out the new growth on trees and plants, shares what’s recently bloomed, and notes whether the bees are busy pollinating the wild plums. We inspect the tiny progress of his transplanted cacti. He always has something new to show me—chicks just hatched, a baby alpaca finding its footing, or a new bird he’s spotted that week. His sweet dog Sophi, who now sadly limps from bone cancer, still comes over for a gentle greeting.
The heart of each visit is always the barn, where his pack of curious, comical alpacas gathers. Larry lights up when the babies jump and play, and he calls each one by name noting its lineage. His love for every creature on the land is unmistakable. I absolutely love these visits. Through Larry’s eyes, I’m reminded what it truly means to work the land—with care, curiosity, and deep reverence.  As I begin my visits to the farms, I’m reminded how much I learn each time I walk the land. The first thing I notice is the green — so many shades of it. Just a few weeks ago, the Eastern Plains were dressed in browns and grays. Now, the landscape is alive with color. Walking the land slows me down. It sharpens my attention. I notice the bees, the earthworms, the first purple flowers, and the fresh, soft green of the cheatgrass. Lately, I’ve been reading The Serviceberry by Robin Wall Kimmerer. She introduces a powerful idea: an economy of reciprocity — where gratitude is the first response, and the second is asking, "What can I give back?" This idea sits at the heart of my work. Through this series of art, I hope to remind us all that the land gives us what we need, but we are not just consumers of her gifts — we are partners. It’s our responsibility to be generous when we are given much, and mindful when we take. I've been given much through this series, and I’m thinking deeply about how to give back. How I Create Pigments from Plants Many people have asked how I make pigment from plants. This season, I’m focusing on deepening my connection to the Colorado Plains — paying close attention to the real experience of working with the land, both the challenges and the rewards. When I find plants or materials that can produce pigment, I harvest with reciprocity in mind:
I then apply these inks directly to panels or paper, often layering them with other markings or encaustic wax to create the final pieces.
Image: Left, abandoned tractor on my Great-grandfather's Land, Center, Found Painting, Right, My mom with Ty Sisson, a distant relative who now owns the land. 
Winter has settled over the Colorado plains, wrapping the land in a quiet, snow-covered stillness. While nature rests, I’m reflecting on the art exhibition I opened two weeks ago at D’Art Gallery in Denver. This show marks the debut of my encaustic painting series, inspired by last summer’s visits to Berry Patch Farm, LazyB Alpaca Farm, and Flying B Bar Ranch. Now, my focus shifts to Springfield, Colorado, where I’ll be traveling with Jimena Peck and my mom to visit the land my great-grandparents once homesteaded. Jemena, a gifted documentary photographer, will be capturing the journey, preserving this chapter of Dust to Apples through her lens. In the process of researching my family history, I made a surprising discovery—the current owner of the homestead, Ty Sisson, is actually a relative! We’ll be digging into the details of our connection when we visit on March 18th. In the meantime, I’m fine-tuning my plans for the next phase of this project. Once summer arrives, I’ll be back to my weekly farm visits, gathering materials, stories, and inspiration. Stay tuned for what’s ahead.
Currently, I am transposing the writing of my Grandmother Florence Hill. She is the grandmother who traveled from Springfield to Guffey to escape the Dust Bowl. As I read her words, I recognize her deep desire to share this unusual part of her story. Her words provide personal insight into the detailed preparation, careful consideration and courage that this journey took. I sense her hope, the risks they were taking, and even the loss of their leaving. Here is an excerpt from her story: We looked back on the land, once covered by beautiful fields of golden wheat. They were gone and only a vast wasteland lay to the mercy of the winds. Always shifting to and fro as though playing hide and seek. Always searching for a place to hide and rest as it raced back and forth across the prairies, a farmhouse, shed, barn, or just a weed or tree. They were being covered as the dust piled high near them. The garden, the important part of the farm was hidden under the dust. The tractors and machinery also seemed as useless now as they lay half exposed. Dry weather had started this disaster, and farmers had not farmed properly. In my final installation piece, I will use some of her words. Either through recordings that I have of her speaking about it, or through the stories she wrote. They are a true treasure of my family's heritage and our shared connection to the land.
When I went to art school, my mind opened to the countless ways artists express themselves. Everything around me seemed full of potential for my next creative adventure. I feel like I’m in a similar place now. Dust to Apples has become a gift of freedom and self-discovery, and I’m savoring this phase of the creative process. There are endless ways for me to tell my story.
Recently, I had the privilege of sharing my creative process with a class of college freshmen. Honestly, I think it was more of a gift for me than for them. It’s rare that I take the time to reflect deeply on my process and articulate it to others. What surprised me was how much I had to say about my art—45 minutes flew by in what felt like an instant. Right now, I’m reading two books that resonate with this moment in my journey: The Creative Act: A Way of Being by Rick Rubin and The Work of Art by Adam Moss. Both offer fascinating insights into the unique process of creating. My vision for Dust to Apples is beginning to take shape. Here’s a glimpse into where I am right now. The project has three areas of focus: my story, our collective disconnection and dysfunction with the land, and the healing that can happen when we reconnect with it. As this unfolds, I will be sharing more about my process in this blog. Until then, I am feeling full of joy. Now, back to the studio!  The plants are fading, and my time on the farms has come to a pause. When I started this project back in March, I knew almost nothing about which plants could yield which colors. Now, I’m stepping into the next phase: learning how to work with frozen and dried plants to create pigments. I’ll be grinding stones, dirt, and bones, making charcoal from branches—delving into new techniques and materials. Ink is alive. It changes over time, and that initially frustrated me. But this month, I realized something important: I don’t have to fight against this quality. I can incorporate it into my work. I’m developing a conceptual piece called Time Lapse, where I’ll allow the ink’s natural shifts to document the passage of time in the artwork itself. Time Lapse is a quiet reflection on what we’ve gained and lost over generations: the wisdom of seasons and soil, the traditions passed down through families—so much of which has faded with industrialization. As farming has become more mechanized, we’ve lost some of the intimate knowledge that once connected us to the land. This piece highlights those changes, holding both the enduring beauty of what remains and the sorrow for what’s been left behind. Stay tuned for how the winter months produce a time for more research, more experimentation and more opportunities to refine my final exhibition. June-August was filled with weekly farm visits and experimenting in the kitchen to create pigments. It's a slow process since I'm learning as I go, but I've had some great results so far. One of the highlights of these visits is spending time with the animals—Soph, Marsh, the alpacas, and all the others. I love wandering through the land and soaking in the atmosphere. I'm thinking of naming my next exhibit "Meander" to capture the relaxed, enjoyable experience of each farm visit. Here are some images from the visits from June- August. I hope they capture this feeling. P.S.I wanted to include an image of Judy Dogherty, my photographer friend, who graciously photographed the farms in July. She has sense moved our of state so she will no be a part of the project anymore. I will post her photos at a later date because they are lovely and capture the farms and farmers so well.  |
Melody EppersonA profoundly curious artist exploring what it means to be human through art and life. Archives
July 2025
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