Natural Ink Making Journey
Natural Ink Making Journey
I didn’t set out to become obsessed with making ink. It started as a curiosity—one of those quiet, lingering thoughts in the back of my mind: Can I actually make my own ink from nature?
Turns out, the answer was yes. And not only that, but the process of extracting color from plants became something much deeper for me—something that felt like a return home.
Where It All Began
I grew up foraging with my mom. Summers and falls were spent out in the wild, gathering berries, leaves, mushrooms, and whatever else we could find. She taught me to notice the tiny shifts in nature—the way certain plants thrive in specific conditions, how the seasons dictate what we take and what we leave behind.
But I never thought about color. Not in the way I do now. Foraging was always about food, medicine, and connection. It wasn’t until years later that I started to wonder: What if I could turn this into ink?
The Book That Changed Everything
Six years ago, a friend gifted me Make Ink: A Forager’s Guide to Natural Ink-making by Jason Logan. I still remember the moment I opened it—the weight of possibility settling in my chest.
I devoured it, reread it, scribbled notes in the margins, and highlighted every section that made my heart race. Suddenly, foraging wasn’t just about food or herbal medicine. It was about color. I could see it everywhere—hidden inside petals, deep in the roots of plants, waiting to be unlocked.
Of course, there was one problem: I got the book in the dead of winter.
Alaska in winter doesn’t exactly scream “abundant foraging.” Everything was buried under thick layers of snow, and I felt this overwhelming impatience to get started. But that book had an entire section on foraging in winter, which changed how I saw my environment.
I started noticing the lichen clinging to frozen branches, the deep reds of rosehips still hanging on from fall, the bark of alder trees. I learned to appreciate the muted, subtle beauty of winter’s palette, and when spring finally came, I was ready.
Falling in Love with the Process
The first time I made ink, it was… underwhelming. The color was weak, the consistency was off, and I had no idea what I was doing. But something inside me clicked. It felt like there was something there—just out of reach—but if I kept going, kept tweaking, kept learning, I’d find it.
And I did.
With every batch, I got better. I learned how pH shifts could alter color, how modifiers could deepen hues, how patience was just as important as technique. I learned that foraging for ink materials was an act of trust—nature provides what you need, but only if you take the time to see it.
I started seeing ink everywhere. In the onion skins from last night’s dinner. In the marigolds I planted for no reason other than to admire their color. In the coreopsis growing wild along the trails. Everything held potential.
If you’re curious about making your own inks but don’t know where to start, I put together a Free Resource Guide with the basics—grab it here.
Why It Matters
Art has always been about expression for me—about capturing a feeling, a moment, a fleeting glimpse of something bigger than myself. But making my own inks took that connection to another level. Now, my paintings aren’t just made on the land; they’re made from it.
There’s something deeply grounding about working this way. It forces me to slow down, to observe, to appreciate. It’s a conversation with the earth, a collaboration. And I don’t think I’ll ever stop being in awe of that.
I don’t claim to be an expert. I’m still learning, still experimenting, still following my curiosity wherever it leads. But what I do know is this: making ink changed the way I see the world. And if you’re even a little bit curious, I think it might do the same for you.
More soon. Stay curious.
