For the past six years, Jilly Frances has painted the sky every single day. The Toronto-based artist and poet began the ritual on January 1, 2020, shortly after having her first son and shortly before the pandemic hit. Amidst a time of so much change, she turned to the sky as a source of consistency. What began as a personal practice for the artist has evolved into a widely resonant body of work, with collectors seeking out Frances’ paintings of the sky from dates close to their hearts—whether it’s an anniversary, death, or date of birth.

This Mother’s Day weekend, a collection of Frances’ daily sky paintings will be on view at Kikospace as part of her exhibit, Like a Mirror, Like a Mother, Like a Memory. Alongside the Sky series, the deeply personal exhibit consists of two other bodies of work from Frances, both inspired by nature: Ground and Rain. The Ground series incorporates natural materials collected by Frances from her daily environments, while the Rain series is painted outdoors in real time, with each work shaped by the falling water. 

Frances’ work draws from her experiences as a mother, her connection to the natural world, and the passing of time. In these works, Frances captures fleeting moments with subtlety and emotional depth—it’s art that just might encourage you to slow down and observe your own world more deeply. 

We talked to Frances ahead of her exhibition this weekend to hear more about her daily sky series, painting in the rain, and how motherhood has shaped her work. 

Six years later, your Sky series is still going strong. What has this day-to-day ritual of painting the sky given you?

While most people snap photos of sunsets on their phones, the analog person that I am really wanted to spend more time with it. Maybe this was a subtle rebellion to the quick and immediate way we consume beautiful experiences these days, but there was (and is) an intimacy in taking a moment with the sky each day, translating something so grand and impermanent, and holding it in my hands.

This practice teaches me to look longer, look harder, look more deeply. We glance at the sky and call it blue. We shrug off a cloudy day and name it grey. If you look thoughtfully, you’ll see the soft purple tones in the gloom, the flecks of mauve in the clouds of a blue afternoon, the way the sun streaks from gold to peach. Once you shift your way of seeing, it changes everything. Much of life, much of love, is really just paying careful attention.

How has it felt for you to see people resonate with the Sky series and purchase paintings from the significant dates in their lives?

When I began this sky series, it was just a personal practice, I had no intention of sharing it. Once I released a full year of these daily sky paintings at the end of 2020, the surprise gift in it was that it grew to include everyone else’s moments. Collectors will resonate with particular dates to mark the day a baby was born, a wedding took place, a loved one passed, a first date, a new pet, an anniversary, or to mark a new chapter. Getting to hold these intimate stories and memories is an honour. There is so much connective tissue between all of us, and there is something so universal about our resonance with the sky — the way it can mirror our mood, hold a feeling, make a quiet promise. This body of work for me can often feel like a conduit, a kind of telephone wire between folks and their feelings.

How has becoming a mother influenced your art?

A couple of months after having my first son, the pandemic hit in 2020, and of course it was tectonic-plate-shifting. I needed nature to romance me a little bit. And I believe she did. I searched hard for the beauty in the mundane, and it became a mirror back to me – through the sky, through the ground, through the rain.

When you become a mother, you become a little bit fragmented. (Or at least this was true for me.) So I’m often working with fragments, working in fragments. This is in part why these sky paintings are small, round, imperfect circles. Most of us living in dense, urban spaces don’t have vista views of sunsets or sunrises. We catch bits of it between buildings, between trees, between busy cranes building tall towers. Fragments of the sky, fragments of beauty. For me, it was about constantly searching for the profound within the ordinary. And what is more ordinary and profound than motherhood?

Your Rain series is painted outdoors in real time. What is it like to paint in the rain and lean into the unpredictability that brings?

Choosing nature as a collaborator is definitely a bit of a dance. There is always an oscillation between control and letting go. Learning when to let the raindrops overcome me, when to pull the work inside and work with the water, trusting that the falling rain will not “ruin” a piece and working within the constraints of all that the wind and water are composing.

When I look at the evolution of these collections, from Sky, to Ground, to Rain, I see an unfurling fist, an opening hand. I can look back and see myself surrendering to the art more and more. I think this is where the friction lies and this is the journey for me (probably for many of us), to move from a clenched fist to an open hand.

How do art and nature intersect for you? What draws you to incorporating nature into your work?

Nature is the most inspiring artist we all have access to, I think. As the world becomes more and more digital and technological and two-dimensional, I find myself deeply desiring the texture and imperfections of nature, it’s where the soul is. With more and more soulless art and design, I yearn for it, and so I think that’s what draws me in.

As a new mother in 2020 when the world changed, I would take walks with my tiny sons. Anyone who has spent any time with children knows that everything is endlessly fascinating to the fresh eyes of a toddler. We would pay attention to everything, stopping to look at the curve of a stick, the shape of a stone, the colour of a flower. I let nature romance me in this way, and it has continued to.

Is there something you wish more people knew about being a painter?

It’s a language. It’s not decoration, it’s not ornamental, it’s expression. When you are in the company of an artwork, you feel something because it means something.

To me, being a painter is a lot like being a mother. As a painter, you are like a vessel; the work comes through you. Making it is intimate, and once it is birthed and out into the world, you have to let go and trust it will find its people — the ones who will understand it like you do, see it like you do, love it like you do. The bravest and riskiest act is to make something you care about and send it out into the world full of unknowns. Pieces of the artist are always carried in the art.

Like a Mirror, Like a Mother, Like a Memory is on view from May 8-10 at Kikospace, 2104 Dundas St W. Admission is free.