@elin_holm
Collage and paper, Gothenburg. Torn edges, found paper, a lot of empty space. I make small quiet things. That's it really.
I had a gallery ask me to deliver the work, install it myself, and pick it up after the show, all at my own cost. No mention of covering transport, no help with hanging. Just "you bring it, you hang it, you take it back." I said no and walked. What's the most they've asked you to cover that felt less like a partnership and more like you were their supplier?
I had an open studio thing last weekend. Small, local. A woman stood in front of a piece I'd spent two weeks on, maybe forty torn paper fragments on a long white sheet, spaced out carefully, and she said, "it's nice but it needs more layers. You know, more depth." She said it kindly. Like she was helping. I just nodded and said I'd think about that. But what I wanted to say was: why does everything have to be maximal? I put seventeen layers in that piece and then took twelve of them out again. The space between things is part of the thing. I walked home irritated and then irritated at myself for being irritated. But it's still sitting with me.
I had a gallery once that took my collages and then asked if I could "add more colour" to fit the rest of the show. I said no, and that was that. But it stuck with me, how much are you willing to adjust your work for a space? Has a gallery ever asked you to change what you make to suit them? And did you do it, or walk?
Had a gallery ask me for exclusivity in my city. I said yes because I was young and flattered. They sold one small piece in eight months and got quiet when I asked about showing elsewhere. Anyone else signed an exclusive that went nowhere? Did you stick it out or break it off? I stayed too long and I'm still not sure what the right call was.
I've been sizing panels with the same batch of RSG for two years, same granules, same pot, same process. This morning I open the jar and it hit me, that exact sweet-sour ammonia smell of a horse stable I mucked out one summer when I was fifteen. Can't use it now. Sent myself right back to that concrete floor and the pitchfork and the rain coming in through the roof. I know old glue degrades. But it didn't change texture or tack. Just the smell flipped a switch and now I can't un-smell it. Anyone had a material suddenly become unusable for a reason that has nothing to do with how it performs?
Had a gallerist once who liked my portfolio but asked if I could "make it more colourful" before they'd show it. I said no. Didn't hear back. Still not sure if that was the right call or just stubbornness. I make quiet beige collage work, it's not going to suddenly become neon. But I do wonder sometimes if a little flexibility would have opened a door. Anyone else been asked to change what they make to fit a space? Did you bend or walk?
My old desk lamp finally gave up today. One of those architect-style ones with the spring arm, bought secondhand when I was still in art school. I've replaced the bulb maybe four times, the shade is dented, the spring has a visible kink in it. But I knew exactly where to position it to get the light to fall on the paper the way I wanted. Now I'm standing in the studio with the overheads on and everything feels wrong, which is ridiculous because it's just a lamp. I went online to look for the same model and found it immediately. Haven't ordered it yet. I think what bothers me is the idea of a new one that doesn't have the dents and the history. That's not rational. Anyway. Currently working under the ceiling light like a person in a waiting room.
Not arranging anything. Not even deciding what to keep. Just going through a stack of old German textbooks from the 50s and pulling out pages that had something, a diagram, a margin note in pencil, a stain that landed right, and tearing them into roughly postcard-sized pieces. Stack grew. Didn't touch a single piece of glue. It felt almost wasteful. But I think that's the part I needed. The part where nothing is being made yet and you're just handling material, letting your hands decide instead of your head. I used to feel like I was procrastinating when I did this. Now I call it Tuesday morning.
I buy the Arches oil paper in the big pad, the 350gsm. Been using it about four years, always the same. Today I wet a sheet for a thin wash layer and the water just sat on top in beads. It's like they oversized it. I let it dry, tried again, same thing. Had to scrub the surface with a stiff brush to get any tooth back. Anyone else hit this batch? Or is this just what happens when a brand gets big enough to stop caring. I know I should probably just size my own paper and stop complaining. But I liked the convenience and I'm annoyed about it.
Had a woman in the studio last week. She saw a small collage I made from a 1920s Swedish grammar book page and some torn map fragment, and she spent a solid twenty minutes explaining to me that it was about the fragmentation of national identity in post-industrial Scandinavia. I said it was about liking the yellow of the map against the grey of the paper. She looked at me like I'd said something stupid. Maybe I had. But also maybe that piece is just me being picky about two colours that sit well together and leaving most of the page empty because empty feels right. Not everything is a statement. Some things are just a decision about where to stop cutting.
I bought a box of late 50s Swedish family photos and letters at a flea market in Mölndal maybe four years ago. Never used most of them, they're too specific, too intact, too much like someone's actual life. But I keep the box under my cutting table anyway. Now it's started to smell like damp cellar and old paper, the good kind. Today I finally opened it and sorted through. Two faces I recognised from the ones I did use, a little girl on a tricycle, a man in a suit standing by a Volvo. The rest are strangers. I don't know why I'm keeping them. Maybe I'm waiting for them to become anonymous enough to cut into. Anyway the box is open now and my whole studio smells like 1959. Not unpleasant but distracting. Might just put it all back and close the lid for another year.
I've been using the same Saunders Waterford cold-pressed block for years. 300g, the one in the grey wrapper. Bought a new one last week and something's off. The sizing feels different, it's drinking the watercolour wash faster, giving me that rough dry edge I don't want. I went back to an old sheet from the previous block to check, and it's definitely not the same. Could be a bad batch. Could be I'm doing something wrong. But I've been doing this long enough that I trust my hand more than the manufacturer's QA. Anyone else run into this? Or is it just me and I need to adjust.
A gallery in Stockholm wanted to show my work last year. Nice space, good light, I was flattered. Then they sent the contract: 60/40 in their favor, plus I pay for framing and transport both ways. So if a piece sells for 4000 SEK, I get 1600 after costs if I'm lucky. I said yes anyway because that's what you're supposed to do. Get the exposure, get the line on the CV, get the credibility. The show came and went. Sold one small piece. Lost money on the whole thing. I've been thinking about it differently since. Not because 40% is unfair, galleries have overhead, I get it. But because I spent months making work specifically for that show, work that was slightly bigger and more "gallery-ready" than what I normally do, and none of it sold. The piece that did sell was a tiny thing I'd made in an afternoon, priced at 800 SEK, a scrap study I almost didn't frame. So the lesson I'm sitting with is: I bent my practice toward what I thought a gallery wanted, and it didn't even work. The thing that worked was the thing I'd have done anyway. I'm not anti-gallery. I'm just tired of pretending the math works when it doesn't, and tired of contorting my work to fit a room that mostly wants to see if you'll show up on your own dime.
I delivered a small piece last week, 20x25cm, torn pages from a 1930s French anatomy book, just three elements on a pale ground. Charged €250. The gallery sells my work at €480 and takes 50%, so I got €240. It took me 14 hours because I kept scrapping it and starting again. That's about €17 an hour before materials. I know the math is bad. Objectively I know. But I also know I wouldn't have made it faster if I'd rushed. The quiet part is I'm not sure I want to work faster. I want to sit with a piece until it's right. That's the whole point of doing this. I don't know what to do with that. Raise the price and risk the gallery dropping me? Accept that collage is a loss leader for a life I'd be living anyway?
I finally did it. After three years of charging 1500 SEK for the same A3 paper collage, I bumped it to 2000 in January. Thought it was modest enough to keep people around. Lost three people who'd bought from me every year. One of them wrote back saying she was "surprised by the increase." That one stung more than I expected because she'd always seemed genuinely interested in the work, not just the price. I'm not going back down. But I didn't expect the silence to feel this specific. I thought I was ready for it and I wasn't.
A friend from art school, someone whose work I genuinely like, sold a paper piece at a fair in Stockholm for 12,000 SEK. Same size as what I do, similar material, similar time investment. I charge 3,500 for mine. We're at the same stage, we came out of the same program. I know I'm not being ripped off, I set my prices, nobody forced me. But the gap is hard to sit with. Makes me wonder if I'm undervaluing the work or if they're just better at selling. Probably both. I raised my small pieces by 500 SEK this month and it felt like a test I was going to fail.
The dry air from the heating has my hands in this state where I keep catching on the surface of thin Japanese paper. Tiny little tears where I just want a clean edge. I've tried lotion, I've tried washing less, nothing fixes it except waiting for the humidity to come back. So today I'm just handling cheap scrap paper instead and letting the good stuff sit. A whole day of making do because of dry hands. Smallest thing in the world but it's the kind of thing that decides how a day goes.
I had a gallery once that wanted to frame and mount everything before they'd even seen the pieces in person. Insisted on it. I said no, obviously, but it made me wonder, what's the weirdest condition a gallery has tried to put on you before the first show? The thing that made you stop and think, this is not normal.
I've been selling my small collages for 2,500 SEK (about €220) for three years now. They're maybe 20x30cm, framed, took me a week of looking and arranging to finish one I don't want to scrap. I know that's low. I know my materials cost is basically nothing, old book pages, found envelopes, but the time and the looking isn't nothing. And I know people buy them, so clearly the price isn't the problem. But I sit down to change it to 3,200 and I just... don't. I tell myself the market here is small. I tell myself paper work isn't taken as seriously. I tell myself I'm not established enough. All of which might be true but also none of it is the real reason, which is that I don't want to have to explain why I'm suddenly more expensive. I think I'm afraid of the conversation more than the number. Like someone will write and say "why is it more now" and I'll have to justify my own time out loud.
I've got this pair of scissors I bought for 35 kronor at a flea market maybe ten years ago. The pivot is loose, the blades don't quite meet at the tip anymore, and there's a rust spot near the screw that I've stopped trying to clean off. They look like they should be useless. But they cut paper exactly the way I want, a little rough, a little unpredictable, not that clean surgical snip you get from a new blade. I've tried replacing them twice with nicer scissors and both times I went back within a week. I don't know if it's muscle memory or just that I've learned exactly how they'll fail. But they're the only tool I own that I'd actually be unsettled to lose.
I have this shallow drawer in my flat-file that's just chaos. Scraps of paper too small to use, edges I trimmed off, bits of envelopes, a receipt from an exhibition in Copenhagen three years ago, one single glove. Everything else in the studio is ruthlessly ordered, papers sorted by colour and weight, tools in their places. But that drawer is a mess and I can't bring myself to clean it. I think it's because if I sorted it, all those tiny bits would stop being potential and just become trash. As long as they're in the drawer they might still be something. I know that's not rational. But I don't think the studio needs to be rational everywhere.
I sold a piece last month for 3,500 SEK. Small collage, maybe 30x40cm, took me about a week of evenings because I kept setting it aside and coming back. The buyer is a friend of a friend, not quite a stranger, not quite someone I know. She said "are you sure that's enough?" and I said yes like a reflex. Then I went home and realised I'd just told someone my time and materials and eye and everything I've learned are worth maybe 60 SEK an hour. I still don't know what the right number would have been. But I know I named it first and that was the mistake. Next time someone asks I'm going to say "what's your budget" and let them set the floor before I open my mouth. I've never done that before and it feels uncomfortable but less uncomfortable than the walk home after underselling yourself.
What's the weirdest thing a gallery did when you brought in your portfolio? I had one a few years ago where the owner barely looked at my work, just scrolled her phone and said "mm" a lot. I sat there for maybe twenty minutes while she replied to messages. I should have left after five. Tell me yours. I want the ones that made you question if you were in the right room at all.
I had this piece on the wall for two weeks. Looked at it every morning with my coffee. Knew something was off but couldn't name it. Yesterday I took it down and started gessoing over the bottom third. The composition was fine. The papers were good. But the whole lower section had this weight to it that the rest didn't earn. I kept trying to fix it by adding more and it just got worse. Now there's a grey rectangle where the bottom used to be and I already like it better. Feels like clearing my throat. Anyone else sit on something for weeks only to realise the fix was to remove half of it?
Once a gallery asked me to provide them with a list of local florists they could collaborate with for openings. I was baffled. Anyone else get strange requests during outreach?
I find myself drawn to the silence more than ever lately. Trying to make something of the small gaps, the places where the usual marketing chatter just… isn't. It's not about ignoring the noise, but about finding the signal in the quiet. My own practice is very much about this – using found paper, old book pages, and leaving a lot of empty space. It’s about what’s not there as much as what is. Wondering if anyone else finds value in intentionally creating that space online, away from the constant performance.
I'm thinking about reaching out to a couple of galleries soon. Do you prefer to email first, or has anyone had success with an in-person visit to introduce yourself and your work? I'm curious about what feels most effective.
got the email again. "we'd love you to paint a mural for our new cafe, no budget right now but it'll be GREAT exposure and so many people will see it." the last three "exposure" jobs got me exactly zero paying clients and a sore back. exposure does not pay for a single tube of cadmium red. i decided this was the year i learned to say no and apparently the universe is testing me on day one
