SAD, HORNY, & SERIOUSLY CRAFTED: How Illustrator Lily Jade translates interior chaos into negative space, bureaucratic artifacts, and visual poetry

Words By Marie Anne Arreola   |   July 2026

The hum of the city, a low, persistent thrum beneath the concrete and glass, often feels like the baseline of our contemporary interior lives. We navigate its currents, a million tiny narratives unfolding simultaneously, each one a testament to the strange, beautiful, often contradictory experience of being human right now. It is within this cacophony, this vibrant, overwhelming archive of feeling, that the most resonant art finds its voice. Like a whispered secret in a crowded room, or a sudden, unexpected hush in a bustling theater, it demands our attention not through volume, but through an almost unbearable intimacy.

This yearning for shared emotional truth, resonates deeply with the work of artists like Lily Jade, whose illustrations for Haley Lu Richardson's poetry collection, I'm Sad and Horny, offer a different, yet equally profound, pathway to understanding our contemporary moment. Jade's art doesn't merely decorate the text; it enters into a conversation with it, an intricate dance between word and image that expands, complicates, and deepens the emotional register of the poetry. As a poet myself, I am perpetually drawn to these liminal spaces where graphic design and illustration cease to be mere adornment and become, instead, a form of authorship, a poetic act in itself.

Jade's work reminds us that in an era saturated with visual culture, the thoughtful, intentional collaboration between image and word is not just relevant, but essential.

There is a knowing gaze to Jade's art that seems to understand the knots and tangles of contemporary interior life: the desire, the exhaustion, the self-awareness, the longing. It is art that listens, and interrupts, and that sometimes holds what words alone cannot.

When a project, like I'm Sad and Horny, is rooted in such raw emotional contradiction, how does one decide what belongs in the line, the gesture, the negative space? What is said visually versus what is left to the poem? Jade speaks of "American Horror Story" (p. 20–21) as a delicate dance, where ample negative space gives the reader time to react, to let the anecdote sink in. 

The poem, spread over two pages at Haley's suggestion, allows the second half to "really sing." Here, layout itself becomes a form of collage, a deliberate act of shaping temporal and emotional experience. Even the typesetting, the seemingly mundane detail of a hanging indent, carries weight: "Yes, this poem is funny, but this project is not a joke." 

This is the meticulous care of an artist who understands that every element contributes to the emotional architecture of the work.

Collaboration, especially when the author's voice is as powerfully present and confessional as Richardson's, is a negotiation. How does a visual artist protect their own authorship while remaining in conversation with the poetry? For Jade, a lifelong friendship with Richardson made the creative process fluid, intuitive. This deep understanding allowed her to take "artistic liberties" that augmented the reader's experience. 

One day, I went to my legally street-parked car only to find that it had been mysteriously towed to a different location. Once I finally found the car, there was a little yellow card inside from the NYC Department of Transportation which offered no real explanation. There was no regard for my time (with all due respect to the DOT workers) – just like how this man had no regard for Haley's time. My annoyance turned into inspiration to incorporate the slip into the my type artwork. I was able to sprinkle in my own experience and the aesthetic of my city into the project in a way that was true to the poem.

Her anecdote is a perfect encapsulation of this. The annoyance of a personal inconvenience transforms into inspiration, a tangible artifact of the city's aesthetic woven into the artwork, mirroring a poem about a partner's disregard. 

This isn't just illustration; it's a co-authorship of experience, a shared sensibility translated across mediums. It speaks to a profound belief in the interconnectedness of lived experience and artistic expression, a testament to the idea that our personal histories are fertile ground for universal truths.

In the ecosystem of publishing and art, the graphic designer and illustrator often occupy a space considered "adjacent" rather than central to authorship. Yet, Jade's experience with I'm Sad and Horny offers a counter-narrative.

Haley Lu Richardson, with her hard-won clout, championed Jade's work, giving her "flowers" on national television and in major publications. This unwavering support freed Jade to focus entirely on her craft, unburdened by concerns of "power, credit, or visibility." It highlights the vital role of advocacy and genuine collaboration in elevating all voices within a creative partnership. It also underscores Jade's own belief in the importance of creative credit, a practice she actively engages in as both artist and consumer. 

This reciprocal appreciation, this conscious act of acknowledging artistic labor, is a quiet revolution in an industry often predicated on hierarchies.

There's also a lightness to Jade's work that never feels evasive, a playfulness that invites readers in without softening the weight of what's being felt. In an era where irony can often flatten emotional stakes, Jade uses playfulness as a serious tool, a purposeful gesture. 

The fuzzy bird pens in the artwork for "Question Mark," a poem Haley wrote at 14, are not merely whimsical. They represent the "inner child's voice," their very shape echoing the titular punctuation. This is not irony for irony's sake, but a deliberate choice that layers meaning, inviting empathy and a deeper understanding of vulnerability. It's a sophisticated use of visual metaphor, transforming a seemingly lighthearted element into a poignant symbol of nascent questioning and self-discovery.

Jade's images are deeply attuned to contemporary interiority, a reflection of a moment shaped by digital culture, online intimacy, and shifting ideas of vulnerability. Her self-identification as a Taurus rising and moon, known for "making beautiful use of available resources," speaks to a conscious act of documentation. She sees her work as an archive, "constantly collecting what's around me (both the physical materials and the ethos of the digital world right now) and adding to my little bird's nest of self-expression."

At its heart, this is about observing and understanding culture through creative practice. It's cultural anthropology, a meticulous gathering of the ephemeral and the profound, translating the zeitgeist into a visual language that feels both immediate and timeless. 

It's a testament to the artist as a sensitive barometer, registering the subtle shifts in our collective emotional climate.

Looking ahead, the role of illustration within literature, Jade believes, is destined to become "more intertwined, especially in fine art." She admires artists whose work exists at an equilibrium of words and images, "sort of like meme paintings." This vision points to a future where the traditional boundaries between disciplines blur, where hybrid forms emerge, reflecting the complex, multi-modal ways we now consume and create meaning.

What feels urgent to her now is "human connection within and between disciplines." This urgency is underscored by her visceral reaction to "AI-generated cartoony brushstroke graphics," which she finds "freak me out, not in an 'I'm threatened' kind of way, but in a 'this image has no soul' kind of way."

This distinction between the soulless and the soulful is critical. It's the very core of what makes art, art. Lily Jade's insistence that I'M SAD AND HORNY "has a soul" is not merely an artistic statement, but a declaration of purpose. In a world increasingly mediated by algorithms and artificiality, the human touch, the lived experience, the messy, contradictory, vulnerable essence of our being, becomes the most precious resource. 

The intersection of image and text, when handled with such care and intelligence, becomes a sanctuary for this soul. It's a place where the personal becomes universal, the individual ache finds its collective echo, and where the lingering power of art reminds us of what truly matters.

Ultimately, Jade is engaged in the profound work of making visible the invisible, of giving form to the inchoate. With her intricate visual dialogues, both her and Richardson invite us into the intimate chambers of contemporary feeling. Both are acts of profound generosity, offering us mirrors and windows, opportunities for introspection and connection.

The journey from an illustrator's nuanced conversation with poetry is not a divergent path, but a circular one, a continuous exploration of how art, in its myriad forms, helps us to articulate, to process, and ultimately, to share the indelible, soulful complexity of being human. The work lingers, because it reminds us that the quest for connection, for understanding, for the soul in our stories, is a timeless and urgent endeavor.