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Yesterday one of my new students, maybe fourteen years old, sat down with my mother's old chart of the fish motif and asked me a question nobody has asked me in my whole life. She said, why always two fish, one facing this way and one facing that way? Why not three, or seven, or just one big fish? I laughed a little, but then I saw she was serious. So I told her the story, the two fish are for the bride and the groom, the way the union is always two, never one, and the water between them is the life they make together. It is not decoration, I told her. Every line in our paintings is a word. The peacock is for love, the parrot for the messenger, the bamboo for the family growing. She thought for a long time. Then she said, but in our house nobody is married. It is only me and my mother. And I did not have the answer ready, ji. I have been painting these fish since I was smaller than her, and I have never once thought about what they say to a house that has no wedding in it. Maybe the fish still speak. Maybe they wait. I told her the fish are patient, they will hold their place until the story comes to her. But I am still thinking about it this morning, and I wanted to write it down. Our art is old, very old, but it is not finished. The young ones are showing me the empty spaces in it.

I am putting this here because I have no one else to say it to without sounding ungrateful. Last month I finished a painting for the cooperative, the one that takes our work to Delhi and to the fairs. Wedding scene, peacocks on both sides, natural colour. Fine line work, my eyes are not what they were, so it was slow. Three weeks nearly, with the teaching going on in the mornings. Account came: 1,850 rupees. Paper and the red I make from sindoor and gum and the yellow from turmeric and stone, that all paid from my side. So the real figure is lower than 1,850. There was a time when the buyer came to the house or to the haat and money was less but it was ours and the talking was ours. Now there is the cooperative and the gallery and the website, and I am grateful, truly, because the work goes far. But somewhere in that chain the person who makes the line is the smallest one in it. My son says I should put my own price on the paper when I send it. I am 56, I have been doing this since I was a girl of nine. And still I hesitate to write a number, because in our community the art was never sold as such, it was given for the wedding, for the puja, for the household. That thinking is inside me and I cannot remove it. Tomorrow I have to send two more to the same place. I will send. But something in the chest is sitting heavy.

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

Myself Ramesh ji, from Madhubani. I want to ask something from all of you. My first gallery showing, many years back, a big gallery from Delhi took my Mithila paintings. I was so happy, I thought my mother's art is going everywhere now. But when the show finished, they said the paintings did not sell much, and also they had to take their commission and the framing cost, so nothing was left for me. I came home with empty hands and my wife was not saying anything but I could see. I was young and I did not know to ask for anything in writing. I learned after. Tell me, who else had such first experience? The gallery that took your work first time, did they treat you properly or you also had to learn the hard way? I want to know I am not alone in this.

I spent years doing the thing everyone tells you to do, posting process videos, engaging in DMs, keeping a content calendar. And last month a friend who runs a small gallery in Turin said "why don't you just write to the people you already know?" So I wrote a very plain email. No newsletter platform, no template. Just an email to 47 people, collectors I'd met at openings, old classmates, two professors, that person who bought a print three years ago and seemed to actually care. I said: I have six new etchings, they're about repetition and failure, here are three images, first come. I sold five prints in two days. Five prints to people I already knew. I spent maybe an hour on the email. I had spent three months on Instagram for the same result, maybe less. The thing is I think we're all performing visibility for an algorithm that doesn't buy art, while the people who actually might are just sitting in our phone contacts, bored of our posts too. I'm not saying burn the platform down. But I am saying I sent 47 emails and it worked better than 3 years of showing up for the feed.

Not a manifesto, just a thing that happened. I closed the account in the first week of January, mostly out of fatigue. Photographing a canvas under three lamps, adjusting the white balance, cropping so the edges don't show, then watching forty people like it and nobody write. Ten years of that and I was tired in a way sleep doesn't fix. Three commissions have come in since, all through the same channel: someone saw a painting on a wall at a friend's apartment in Lyon and asked who did it. One of them is a large interior, a woman at a window, and she has already sent me the light measurements from her apartment and asked me to visit at 4pm to see the room. That is worth more than any algorithm has ever handed me. I'm not saying everyone should quit. I still have a website with prices on it because I'm not a monk about this. But it's been two months and I have not missed it once. What I do miss is the excuse to see other painters' work, so I've been going to the Musée des Beaux-Arts on Thursdays instead, when it's empty, and looking at the Fantin-Latour for an hour. That has done more for my work than a year of posting ever did.

Yesterday a visitor to the cooperative bought one of my smaller fish-and-lotus pieces for ₹1200. Three days of fine line work with the brush, the natural pigment, the handmade paper that I prepare myself. When I counted it out, it came to less than what a plumber charges for a single visit in Patna. I did not bargain. The price was fixed because the cooperative fixed it, and the cooperative fixes it low so that the foreign buyers and the art galleries keep coming back. My mother sold her best work for a sari and a sack of rice when I was a boy. So I should feel fortunate, no? But ji, here is the thing I cannot set aside. The same size piece, once a Delhi dealer resells it, goes for twenty times that and it hangs in a drawing room beside imported furniture. Nobody argues with that price. Only my hand is supposed to be cheap. I am not writing this to shame the young woman who bought it. She was kind and she chose my work. I am writing it because we do not speak of this enough. I have painted since I was eight years old. My fingers know these lines the way my mother's did. And some days I ask myself what my daughter's fingers will find worth doing, if this is the value of three days. I have been thinking of raising my own price for the pieces I sell directly, outside the cooperative. For a larger piece I want to ask ₹6000 and it frightens me to say it aloud. Have any of you fixed your own price after years of accepting what was given?