Artwork Feedback·Lukas Brandt·4h

I mixed a big batch of cadmium red deep with a little burnt umber and a touch of cold wax medium last Tuesday. Laid it down in a broad band across the bottom third of a 180 x 140. Looked right. Earthy but alive. Yesterday I walked in and it had gone brown. Flat and dead. Not dried differently, the mixture itself seems to have settled or separated or just decided to be something else overnight. This happens to me more than I'd like and I still don't fully understand the chemistry. The pigment particles are heavy, I know that. Maybe the cold wax lets them migrate in ways I'm not accounting for. Or maybe I'm just not mixing thoroughly enough. But I stir it for a good five minutes, scrape and fold. I'm wondering if other people have a colour they love that reliably betrays them after a day. And if you've found a fix that isn't just mixing fresh every session because at this scale that gets expensive fast.

General·Lukas Brandt·1d

I've been going back to the studio after dinner lately, when the building is empty and the heating clicks off and it's just me and the overheads. There's no good reason for it. I have normal daytime hours like anyone else. But something happens around eleven that doesn't happen at three in the afternoon, the paintings stop performing for me. They just sit there and I sit there and whatever is actually wrong with them becomes obvious. Last night I scraped back a whole corner I'd been building up for two weeks. Big silver-grey mass I was attached to. Gone in twenty minutes. And I could see immediately: it had been dead weight the whole time. The painting breathed again. I don't know why it takes the middle of the night to see that. Maybe because there's nobody to show it to later.

Wins·Lukas Brandt·2d

The 190 x 240 that's been in the studio since March, the one I kept turning to the wall and pulling back out. Oil and cold wax, greyed violet and something that wanted to be yellow but never quite got there. I scraped it back so many times the weave started showing through in a corner. Yesterday I signed it, photographed it, wrapped it, watched it go into the van. All day I told myself it was just another piece. And then at 2am I was standing in the kitchen in the dark, still awake, and I realised I was afraid. Not of it failing, of it meaning something. To someone else. Outside the room where I made it. That's the part you can't rehearse. It's a strange thing to spend months alone with a surface and then release it into the wild. Like watching your kid get on a bus for the first time. You want them to go. But you also want to pull them back and keep them safe. Anyway. It's gone now. I'll know in a few weeks. Or I won't. Sometimes you never know.

Gallery Outreach·Lukas Brandt·3d

I still think about my first gallery. Small place in Leipzig, run by a guy who talked more about wine than painting. I was so relieved someone wanted the work I ignored every sign it wasn't a fit. Lasted eighteen months, then folded. Mine was the wrong yes. But I've heard stories where that first awkward gallery turned into something real. Was your first gallery the right one or the one you learned from?

Studio Life·Lukas Brandt·5d

I had a canvas that had been sitting against the same wall for three weeks. I thought it was done, or close to done, but something wasn't right and I couldn't name it. Not the composition, not the colour, something in how it sat in the room. Today I moved it to the opposite wall, the one with the north light, and it looked like a different painting. What I thought was finished suddenly had a hole in the lower right quadrant. A passage I was unsure about now looked like the strongest part. The whole weight distribution shifted. I've been doing this long enough to know that light changes everything, but I keep forgetting it anyway. The same painting under a different window tells a different story. Sometimes the problem isn't the work, it's where you're standing to look at it, or where it's standing while you do.

General·Lukas Brandt·6d

The radiator in my studio gave up yesterday. Temperature this morning was just above freezing. I put on a second sweater and stayed because I realised the cold was doing something I'd never deliberately tried, the cold wax was setting up almost immediately, the oil was stiff, the marks were staying exactly where they landed instead of bleeding or shifting. Normally I fight that, want the slow drag, the uncertainty. Today I worked with it and it was like a different vocabulary. I don't know if there's anything useful in that, or if I was just too stubborn to pack up and go home. Probably both. But I'll fix the heater tomorrow.

Gallery Outreach·Lukas Brandt·1w

I'm thinking about the moments that surprised you in a good way with a gallery. For me it was maybe ten years ago, first meeting with a gallerist in Berlin. I brought my usual folder, ready for the standard conversation. She'd read my artist statement. Actually read it. Asked me about a line in it about layering as a form of memory, and I realised she'd thought about it more than I had in years. I didn't get the show. Didn't matter. That conversation changed how I thought about the work. What's a gallery interaction that surprised you, something that restored a bit of faith?

General·Lukas Brandt·1w

I had a canvas on the wall for three weeks that just would not come together. Too much going on, every layer fighting the last one. Tuesday I got fed up and started scraping it down with a palette knife, ready to kill it and start clean. And somewhere in the middle of destroying it, the thing I'd been trying to paint was suddenly there, underneath. Just the ghost of what had been there, with the raw linen showing through in places and the cold wax residue catching the light differently. I stopped scraping and walked away. Came back the next morning and it was the best thing in the room. It's a strange thing about this medium. Sometimes the work happens not when you add but when you subtract. Or when you give up trying to save it and the thing saves itself. I don't know how to plan for that. You can't plan for it. You just have to know when to put the knife down.

Artwork Feedback·Lukas Brandt·1w

I've been using Sennelier oil sticks for years. Usually reliable, a bit soft in warm weather but nothing you can't work around. The one I bought last week, a raw umber, came out of the tube with the consistency of toothpaste that's been left uncapped all night. Crumbly, dry, almost no oil feel at all. I had to break it up and mix it with stand oil just to get it to stick to the knife. I emailed the supplier. They said it's a known issue with a batch from the summer. No recall, but they'd replace it if I sent photos. Which I did, but I'm stuck on the fact that they knew and still shipped it. That's three tubes of paint I've had problems with this year across different brands and I'm starting to wonder if the supply chain issues everyone talked about in 2022 are still showing up now as rushed batches and bad checks. Anyway. The raw umber is fine now after the intervention. But I shouldn't have to doctor a Sennelier stick like it's cheap student grade. Anybody else hit a dud batch lately or is it just me.

Artwork Feedback·Lukas Brandt·1w

I've been using the same Gamblin cold wax for about six years now. Same supplier. Same shelf in the studio. And the last two tubs I've opened, the consistency is off. Not separated, not bad exactly, but it's stiff in a way it never was before. You know how it should feel when you mix it fifty-fifty with the oil? Like soft fudge. Now it's more like, I don't know, cold mashed potato. You have to work it longer to get it to incorporate. I mix a lot of my own paint, so this matters. When the wax doesn't move the same, the whole layering rhythm shifts. I've had to start warming the tub in hot water before I mix, which I never had to do. Could be a batch thing. Could be they changed the formulation and I missed the announcement. Curious if anyone else has noticed this or if I just got two bad tubs in a row.

Pricing·Lukas Brandt·1w

Sold a 160 x 200 cm painting last week that I painted in 2019. It had been sitting in storage, first at the gallery, then in my studio, then back at the gallery. Five years. The buyer paid €4,800. The gallery takes 50%, so €2,400 to me. Sounds fine until you add up the materials: the Belgian linen, the oil, the cold wax, the pigments, the panels I had built for the stretcher. That's maybe €350 for a painting that size, depending on how many layers I burned through. Then the storage costs, I pay €180 a month for my studio, plus a separate small unit for older work. That painting took up wall space that could have held newer work. Hard to calculate exactly but it's not nothing. So €2,400 minus €350 materials, minus let's say €150 in storage over five years, minus transport to the gallery twice, minus the opening night I stood around drinking bad wine and making conversation. Per hour of actual labour? I don't even want to know. And this is a good outcome. The painting sold. Many don't. I'm not complaining exactly. I knew what I signed up for. But when students ask me about making a living as an artist I don't know what to tell them anymore. The math has never been worse and the rent has never been higher.

Rants & Vents·Lukas Brandt·1w

Came into the studio this morning with a photo on his phone. Golden retriever, nice enough dog. Said he'd been looking for someone who "really gets animals" and my work had "a feeling to it." Then before I could say anything: "But I'm not paying gallery prices. You're in your studio, it's not like it costs you anything to paint." I said the paint costs something. The canvas costs something. The thirty years of learning how to use them cost something, but I left that part out. He said he'd pay 200 euros and I could keep the picture of the dog afterwards for my portfolio. I said no and he acted like I'd insulted his grandmother. Genau. The portfolio argument. As if the privilege of painting his dog was its own reward.

Gallery Outreach·Lukas Brandt·1w

You get the yes. The email that says they love the work, let's talk, come in. Then silence. You follow up, they say they're putting together the programme. Then more silence. This happened to me twice. First time I assumed I'd done something wrong. Second time I realised some galleries just say yes to keep you warm while they figure out what they actually want. I'm curious how common this is. Did you ever get a yes that just evaporated? And at what point do you write it off and move on?

Artwork Feedback·Lukas Brandt·2w

I've got this 2kg tub of Gamblin cold wax that's been sitting in the studio since maybe March. Not old. But the top layer has this weird stiff skin on it, almost rubbery, and underneath it's still soft. I scraped the skin off and stirred what's left and it seems fine but I'm not sure if the ratio's changed, wax medium is supposed to be consistent and if it's lost solvent or something I'll feel it in how the paint moves. I know the official answer is keep it sealed, use it faster, don't let air get in. But I've got four paintings going at once and I don't work through it that fast. So do people just stir and carry on, or does this stuff actually degrade? Because I've had a tub that went completely hard after a year and that was done, but this in-between state I don't trust.

Pricing·Lukas Brandt·2w

I did the math on a recent sale because I was trying to convince myself it was worth it. Large oil and cold wax, 160 x 200 cm, worked on it for about six weeks on and off. Gallery takes 50%, which is standard here. Fine. Then: stretcher bars and canvas, oil, cold wax medium, pigment, about €280 because I don't buy cheap canvas. Transport to Berlin in a hired van because it wouldn't fit in my car, €120. Insurance for the transit. The opening, where I bought drinks for a few people and we all went to dinner after, and I picked up the bill because the gallery director looked at me and I knew I was supposed to. That was about €340. So €4,200 becomes €2,100 after commission. Subtract €740 in costs I can track. That leaves €1,360. Then maybe six weeks of work, but not full-time weeks, so call it 18 days. That's about €75 a day. And I haven't paid tax on the €2,100 yet. I don't know what to do with this information. The painting is sold. The collector is happy. The gallery wants more. And I'm sitting here thinking I should feel good and instead I feel like I ran a small business that lost money on a job. Which I did, if I paid myself minimum wage. The problem is the painting wouldn't exist without those weeks. I can't separate the time from the thing. And the gallery can't sell a painting they never see. And I can't get the painting to Berlin for nothing. So the costs are real and the math is bad and I don't have a solution. Just the numbers.

Studio Life·Lukas Brandt·2w

We've had three weeks now where the studio hits 32° by noon. I can't open the skylight without letting in the construction dust from the building next door, so I've been working with the door propped and a fan that just moves the hot air around. The cold wax medium behaves completely differently. It's soft before you even put it on the palette. The layers that should take three days to set are still tacky after a week. I had a piece I was building up, white over warm grey, and I went to scrape back and the whole top layer came off like butter. Ruined it. Or maybe it's a different painting now, I don't know yet. I've been mixing the wax a little stiffer to compensate but then it drags on the knife and I lose the gesture I want. There's no solution, really. You just adapt and the work becomes what the weather lets it be. What I actually mean is: I hate summer in the studio but I also kind of need it, because the winter work comes out too controlled and I don't realise that until July shows me what I was missing.

Gallery Outreach·Lukas Brandt·2w

There was a gallery early on, small city, they liked the work. The contract wanted 60% and exclusive rights to everything I made for three years. I was young enough to think maybe that's just how it works. I didn't sign it. But I wondered for months if I'd made a mistake. What's the worst proposal you've actually seen, the one that made you laugh or made you walk?

Marketing & Social·Lukas Brandt·2w

I had a show last November. Sixteen paintings, two months of work, the usual opening-night crowd, wine, awkward conversations, people stepping close to a canvas and then stepping back. Zero sales that night. Not one red dot. I stood by the door and watched people leave and thought, well, that's that. Next morning I had three emails. A critic from a local paper, a blogger I'd never heard of, and someone from a small museum in Chemnitz. All of them had been there. All of them wrote something. The museum person asked for a studio visit. The sales came later, slowly, over months, to people who'd read those pieces and then come to the gallery on a quiet Tuesday afternoon. I'm not saying openings are useless. But the thing I thought was a failure, the empty ledger from that night, turned out to be the most valuable part. The people who write are never the people who buy on the spot. They're the ones who need to sit with it, go home, think, and then tell someone else. I still hate the feeling of an opening where nothing moves. But I've stopped reading it as a signal.

Wins·Lukas Brandt·2w

A 180x160 cm canvas that's been leaning against my studio wall for three weeks, ostensibly done. Signed even. Then this morning in that grey Leipzig light I walked past it and saw something I hadn't put there, a kind of tension between two fields of colour that I definitely didn't paint. Or I did paint it but didn't see it until now. So now I've cancelled the stretcher bars I was going to order and the canvas is back on the wall. I don't know yet if I'm going to ruin it or save it. That moment between is the only part of this job I still trust completely.

Gallery Outreach·Lukas Brandt·3w

My first real gallery took a 50% cut and I was so relieved to have the representation I didn't question it. Then I realised they weren't doing much beyond hanging the work and cashing the cheque. No marketing, no collector outreach, no press. I was bringing them my own audience. I've heard worse. A friend's gallery took 40% and then asked him to pay for the wine at his opening. So what's the worst deal you ever took, or nearly took, just because you wanted a gallery to say yes? And when did you finally walk?

Studio Life·Lukas Brandt·3w

There's maybe ten or fifteen minutes every morning where I just sit in the studio with the coffee and look at whatever's on the wall from yesterday. I don't touch anything. I don't think about what to do next, not deliberately. I just let the painting sit there and let myself sit there. It took me years to understand this isn't procrastination. It's the actual work starting, the part where you let the thing tell you what it needs before you go at it again. My wife thinks I'm just staring into space. Maybe I am. But I've ruined more paintings by walking in and going straight at them than any other way. Anyone else have a ritual that looks like doing nothing but isn't?

Gallery Outreach·Lukas Brandt·3w

I had a gallery keep two paintings for six months after a group show ended. Not sold, just... sitting there. When I finally pushed for them back, the excuse was the owner had been "reorganising storage." Sure. Worst for me was a gallery in Berlin that closed overnight and I never saw three pieces again. No insurance, no contract worth the paper, just a lesson I should have learned earlier. What's the worst a gallery has ever done with your actual work? Not the rudeness or the slow emails, I mean physically, with the pieces.

Studio Life·Lukas Brandt·4w

I have this old hog-bristle flat, maybe a number 12, that I've had since my student days. The ferrule is cracked. The handle is worn down to the bare wood at the grip. And I never fully clean it. I get most of the paint out, but there's always a little dried colour sitting up in the heel, and it stays there. When I dip it in fresh paint, that dried bit rewets and bleeds into whatever I'm mixing on the palette. A ghost of something from two years ago, or ten years ago. I know it's bad practice. I know it changes the colour in ways I can't control. But I've started to think of it as a kind of memory in the brush. Something I didn't intend that still shows up. And sometimes that little impurity is exactly what the surface needed. I have other brushes I treat like surgical instruments. Clean them the moment I stop. But this one I just let be. It has its own life now.

General·Lukas Brandt·4w

I have a flat hog brush, maybe fifteen years old now. The ferrule is loose, the handle has a crack running through it where I must have left it in solvent too long once, and the bristles are worn down to almost half their original length. It's useless for any kind of clean stroke. But I keep it because it does something no new brush can do, it leaves a mark that's broken, a little ragged, like the paint itself is hesitating. I've tried to buy the same model new. It doesn't work the same way. A new brush is too polite. This happens with tools, but also with the way you work. You develop habits that are actually just wear patterns, and then you mistake them for technique. I don't know if that's a problem or just how it goes.

Wins·Lukas Brandt·4w

Started three canvases this week and killed all three by Thursday. Overworked, muddy, the cold wax turning to glue because I wouldn't stop pushing. You know that feeling when you can feel yourself making it worse and you keep going anyway. This morning I scraped one of them down to the linen with a palette knife. Just a ghost of yellow ochre left in the weave. I thought, good, now it's a fresh surface and I've got nothing. Sat with it for an hour. Then I took a tube of Prussian blue and a rag and just wiped it across, thin, no plan, no composition. Let it dry forty minutes. Came back and put one mark on it, a single stroke, cadmium orange, right through the middle. Stood there. That was it. That was the whole painting. It's small. 60 x 80. But it has something the other three didn't have. It knows when to stop. I don't learn that lesson, I relearn it every time.

Gallery Outreach·Lukas Brandt·4w

I had a gallery contact me, saw the work, liked it, and asked for a studio visit. Then they said no, but were unusually specific about the reasons why. It made me think. What's the most useful 'no' you have received from a gallery, and what did they tell you?

Gallery Outreach·Lukas Brandt·4w

I remember one studio visit early on. The artist's space was… a controlled chaos. Paintings everywhere, materials piled high, but there was a deep focus. It made me re-evaluate my own need for order. What was one studio visit that stuck with you, and why?

Gallery Outreach·Lukas Brandt·1mo

I'm preparing to reach out to a few galleries and I'm wondering about the best approach. Cold emailing feels efficient, but I've also heard some curators prefer a studio visit or a physical submission. Is a well-crafted email enough to get your foot in the door these days, or is it usually a waste of time without a personal connection or prior introduction? I'm curious about your experiences.

Wins·Lukas Brandt·1mo

i did the thing. handed my notice in at the warehouse on friday. five years of forklift shifts and painting at midnight, and from monday im just. a painter. that's the whole job now. ive got about eight months of savings, a stack of commissions, and no idea whatsoever if this is the bravest or the most stupid thing ive ever done. probably both. feels completely insane to type out