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dug out my art school portfolio today while looking for something else. the one I was so proud of right before I dropped out. it's worse than I remembered and I remembered it being pretty bad. the kicker is there's one painting in there I'd happily hang in my studio now. and I didn't even like it at the time, it was the one I almost didn't include. so either my taste was backwards or I've just gotten worse at knowing what's good. both probably. kept the painting, tossed the rest. felt like a small betrayal of my past self but she was wrong about a lot of things.

ok so i took my little travel kit down to the park today, first time painting outdoors in years, i've been such a coward about it honestly. and i forgot, i mean i FULLY forgot how brutal plein air is?? like you're fighting the light changing every ten minutes, wind keeps flipping your paper, bugs land in your wet paint, and some kid's mom is standing behind you going "oh how nice" while you're internally screaming because your shadows are already wrong. BUT. i got something. one little study where the light actually worked and i caught the way the jacaranda was dropping purple all over the bench. and i felt like myself again? the version of me that used to sit on the sidewalk outside the studio building and paint whatever. it's messy and the proportions are off but i don't even care. anyway if you've been scared to paint outside just go do it it's terrible and wonderful 👍

ok so I need to say this somewhere because my partner is tired of hearing it and honestly they're right. I did a little gouache commission last month, 11x14, a house portrait for a coworker of my mom's (mom's coworker, not even mine, which is its own whole thing). Quoted $260. Felt generous at the time, felt like a real artist number. It took me four sessions. Four. Because the roof had all this dappled light on it and I kept redoing the same three shingles like a maniac. Plus materials, plus the scan and a print of it as a thank you, plus driving it over to her house because "oh don't worry about shipping." By the end it was like $40-something an hour if I don't count the prep drawing I threw away. If I DO count it, it's less. And then she tipped me $20 and I almost cried, which, in fairness, might have been the sleep. The thing that's actually bugging me isn't the $260. It's that I quoted it off the top of my head in a two-second text. Didn't look at anything. Didn't think about size or complexity or the part where a house has like nine hundred windows. Just said a number because saying a bigger number felt rude. Meanwhile I've got a 5x7 in the same style I've been charging $85 for since art school, and those take me maybe two and a half hours now, so per hour they're actually not awful. It's the mid-size ones that are quietly eating me alive. Which I only figured out because I wrote every job down in a notebook this month like a responsible adult, and the notebook is mean. Anyway I think my 11x14 needs to be $400 and I've been sitting on that number for a week like it's a live grenade. Saying it out loud here so it stops being just mine. Nobody warned me that the hard part of full time isn't the painting.

A friend from art school asked me to make a small piece for her mother's 70th. Something with botanical prints, her mother loves old herbals. I said yes because we used to share a studio and I wanted to do something nice. I didn't think about the hours. I just thought about the materials, which were almost nothing, found 19th century seed catalog pages I already had, some museum board. So 500 SEK felt fair for a friend, maybe even generous. Then I actually tracked the time. Tearing and arranging is slow. Letting things sit and come back to them. I ended up at about 14 hours from start to finish. That's roughly 35 SEK an hour. About 3 euros. Less than a coffee in this city. I'm not angry about it. She's a friend and I'm glad I made it. But I realised I have absolutely no instinct for what my time is worth. I undershoot every time. I think because the materials are cheap I assume the whole thing should be cheap. But the materials are cheap because I spent years learning where to find them and how to use them. That's not nothing.

So I've been full-time for eight months now which means I've been doing all the "okay so I guess I have to market myself" stuff that nobody prepares you for in art school lol. And the thing that actually worked, the thing that got me my first real gallery relationship, was the most humiliating process ever. I spent a weekend sending 40 cold emails. Like, proper ones, with images and links and a real bio. And I got one reply. ONE. And honestly for like two days I was so embarrassed I almost didn't open it because I assumed it was a no too. But it was a yes. A small gallery in a city I'd never been to, but they liked my work and wanted to talk. That one yes turned into a group show, which turned into two commission requests from people who saw the show, which turned into enough money to pay rent for three months without panic-ordering takeout. Anyway I'm not saying cold emailing is the secret sauce, mostly it's just brutal lol. But I think sometimes we hear about the one reply and not the 39 silences. So here's my question I guess: what's the thing you tried that felt stupid or embarrassing or like it wasn't working, and then it kind of... did?

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.

okay so I've been full-time for about eight months now and I keep telling myself I need to start reaching out to galleries properly, like not just liking their posts and hoping they notice me lol. but every time I sit down to write an email I freeze up. like what do you even say?? "here's my work, please look at it??" feels insane. I sent exactly ONE cold email back in art school and the gallerist replied with just "no thanks" and I think about it every day honestly. so who here has actually done the cold email thing and gotten a yes? what did you say? or are we all just waiting to get noticed like it's a period drama 💀 give me the real stats here

After a year and a half of watching from the sidelines they finally trusted me with an actual 17th-century map at the studio. Not just humidifying and flattening, the real thing. Tear repairs, filling a loss the size of my thumbnail, the whole slow careful dance. I've been doing conservation work since art school but always behind someone. Yesterday I sat with that map for six hours and my hands did not shake once. That sounds like a small thing but it isn't. The paper is so thin you can see the light through it and there's something about touching something that old with your bare fingers, knowing you're the one responsible for it being there tomorrow. My coworker said the map smelled like tobacco and old ships. It doesn't. It smells like nothing at all, which is what three hundred years of being properly kept does to paper. I think that's the part I love. Nothingness that was fought for.

okay so when I was fresh out of art school I walked into this small gallery downtown with a whole portfolio folder, no appointment, no email, just vibes and hope, and the owner literally didn't look at a single piece. Just told me to "send something through the website" while staring at her laptop. I was so crushed I almost cried in the parking lot haha. it took me two more years and honestly the break I finally caught was so random, a friend of a friend's cousin was having a show and told the curator about me. no big pitch, no cold email genius moment, just someone saying my name in a room. SO what actually worked for you?? did you email and get lucky, walk in somewhere, get referred by someone, or did you have to do something totally embarrassing first? I need to hear the wins and the wreckage honestly, because I'm convinced everyone got in through some weird back door and nobody talks about it 😭

ngl the most important thing in my studio right now costs six dollars and it's a plastic clip fan from the corner store three blocks down. the little ones that clamp onto anything. i clipped it to the easel arm because the acrylic started tacking way too fast once the heat came in, and now i basically paint at the speed the fan lets me. i've learned more about my own timing from a cheap fan than from most of art school. the tradeoff is it's loud enough that i have to pick between the fan and music. today i picked the fan. which means i painted the whole afternoon in this weird white-noise hum like the inside of a seashell and honestly? my hand was steadier. the painting i'm working on is four feet of flat orange and one dumb white shape and it's fighting me on the value, everything else is cooperating just to lull me into a false sense of security about the orange. anyway if you've got a cheap tool that accidentally became load-bearing for how you work i want to hear it

when i dropped out of art school nobody told me the real curriculum was "learn to stand in one spot for four hours." i've been standing at the easel since 2021 and my right knee now clicks like a metronome when i walk down stairs. still not getting a stool. reason is dumb and real: sitting makes me think too much. standing, i'm physically in the thing, arm's already moving before the little committee in my head votes. i can see the whole 4x5 canvas without leaning back. the actual problem is my floor. it's cheap laminate and after three years of shifting weight in the same square i've worn a bald patch in the finish, right where my feet live. looks like a horse stood there. landlord is gonna love that. anyway i'm painting a big flat square of that cheap red-orange they use on soup cans, and the only way to feel if the density is right is to back up across the room and squint, which means i'm basically doing lunges all day. my legs are gonna be incredible by the time this show is done. the painting might not be.

there's this one flat brush i've had since art school. it's completely destroyed, splayed out like a broom, and every single time i pick it up it makes the painting worse. and i keep it on purpose. it's like a grounding tool. whenever i'm being too precious about a piece i grab it, make a mess, and suddenly the stakes are gone and i can actually work. i've had nicer brushes since. bought a set that cost more than my groceries last year. they're fine. but this busted thing is the one that actually fixes my head. it just lives in my cup, insulted looking, and it's done more for me than any of the expensive ones. anyone else got a tool that's objectively bad at its job but you refuse to retire it

Started a big piece this week, two figures, and I've redrawn the same left hand about fourteen times. Charcoal, oil wash, charcoal again. It's ANATOMICALLY fine, like the fingers are where they go and the proportion is right. But it's dead. It's a diagram. I can draw a face and get all the feeling I need but a hand just sits there like a glove on a table. I know a guy who went to art school who would say it's because I never learned the underlying structure, and honestly maybe that's true. But I don't want a technically perfect hand. I want the one that looks like it's mid-sentence. The one that's about to reach for something. Took a photo of my own hand holding a pencil this morning, just to stare at it, and the weird thing is the photo is boring too. The hand is boring. It's what the hand is DOING that has the life in it. Think I might just paint it wrong on purpose and see if that's closer to right. Worst case I burn it, I've done that before. 😤

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.

Kid working the register, maybe 19, real sweet, asked if I went to the art institute across town. I said nope, self taught. He goes "oh, so like YouTube?" and I laughed and said the internet and a lot of years of being bad at it. But I drove home kind of hot about it. Not at him. At me. Because here's the thing nobody tells you. There's no last day. No graduation where someone hands you a paper that says you know what you're doing. I've been making work for eleven years and I still open a face and think, I don't know how to do this, I've just done it a bunch of times and one of those times it was right. I have a stack of drawings from year two that would genuinely upset you. Bad proportions, dead eyes, everything floating. I kept them on purpose. When I'm convinced I've lost it I pull one out and go, ok but look at that jaw, you couldn't do that jaw back then. Anyway I'm in the middle of a big oil right now, a torso, and I've repainted the same shoulder four times. Four. It's finally starting to breathe. If you went the school route, I'm not coming for you. I'm jealous of the structure some days. But if you're self taught and you still feel like you're faking it, you're not. You're just the only one grading your own work and you're a harsh grader.

Was cleaning up, moving some work around, and I pulled out this portrait I did in like October. Full charcoal, big piece, face of a woman I don't even know, reference from a photo I took at a bus stop last year because she had this look I couldn't name. Just something in her eyes. Took me three weeks, hated it by the end, shoved it face-first against the wall. Pulled it out today and it's ... good. Like actually good. I forgot I could do that. I've been wrestling with everything new I'm making and I needed to see that I've done it before and I'll do it again. Went and cried for a minute in the corner with a paint rag. Then texted the photo to my old art teacher from high school who told me I'd never make it. Petty? Absolutely. Worth it? You bet.

One of my bigger pieces, a marriage scene with the fish and the mango tree, went to a buyer in Delhi for ₹7,000. That sounds respectable until you sit and count the days. Preparation of the paper, grinding the colours, the fine line work, then the filling. I worked maybe four hours each day for nine days. That is thirty-six hours. Seven thousand divided by thirty-six comes to about ₹194 an hour. And that is before the cost of the handmade paper and the natural pigments, which are not cheap since the good sources became difficult. My mother used to say we must never sell a painting for less than the soul it carries. But the soul does not pay for the grandson's school books. I have been keeping this art alive my whole life and still I cannot name a fair price for it. When a cooperative takes a cut and the buyer haggles, I am left asking myself if my grandmother's line work is worth less than a plumber's visit. I raised my price to ₹8,500 this month. I am scared to go higher because the buyers are not many. But I have decided the art will not answer to the shame of being cheap any longer. If it sells, good. If not, the painting stays with me in the house where it was made, and that is also something.

Y'all, I don't even know how to sit still right now. Back in 1963 my grandmother made a crazy quilt, all those scraps, every shape you can think of, hand-stitched with that tiny perfect stitch she had. She used pieces from my mama's old school dresses, my uncle's Sunday shirt, a flour sack from a brand that don't even exist anymore. I grew up under that quilt. Slept under it when I was sick. Knew every patch like I knew every face at the dinner table. She passed in '89 and I kept it in a cedar chest for years 'cause I couldn't bear to have it wear out. Well, my granddaughter talked me into entering it in a show up in Atlanta. I sent it off with a prayer and tried not to think about it. Called me yesterday. It won. First place in the heritage category. I sat on the floor in the kitchen and cried. That's not like me. But I tell you what, my grandmother never got to see anybody call her work art. She just made beauty from what she had because that's what women did. And here's a room full of people sixty years later saying "yes ma'am, this matters." I know it's just a show. But it ain't just a show to me. Somebody finally saw her. That's all I wanted.

I spent nearly two weeks not painting. Not because I was busy, which I was, but because I kept telling myself I'd only start once I went to the art store and got proper cold-pressed paper. The good stuff. Something deserving of the sketch I had in my head. Finally today I was in front of the stationery shelf in a random supermarket near my mother's place, of all places, and they had these thin spiral-bound sketchbooks. Rough cartridge, ghost of a grain. The kind schoolkids use for drawing class. Ninety rupees or something. Bought it out of spite, basically. And I sat on my balcony this evening and painted the water tank on the neighbour's roof, just the tank and the wires and the late light hitting the wall behind it. Nothing ambitious. It took me forty minutes and the paper buckled a little where I overworked the wash, and the whole thing has that cheap-paper fuzz that I used to hate when I was in architecture school. I'm honestly a bit in love with it. That fuzz has a texture you can't get on the fancy stuff. Funny how the good paper became another excuse to not work. I'm going to give myself permission to ruin a few more of these cheap books before I even think about touching my nice blocks again.