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Not on the easel. On the wall. Facing me. Started it the night my head was loud and got the mouth right probably in the first twenty minutes, then kept going and lost it, then kept going again and buried the whole thing under like four layers of oil because I couldn't leave the mouth alone. Now it's this gray muddy thing with a mouth that almost works under all of it and I walk past it every morning with my coffee and look at the floor instead. I know what to do. Scrape back to it. I just don't want to dig. Three weeks of not wanting to dig. Meanwhile I've started two new ones and finished neither. Anyone else got a piece they're actively avoiding, or is it just me being a coward about a canvas

I've talked for months about wanting to do a series of rooms in my house, just as a personal project, and I kept putting off the kitchen. Too familiar, I told myself. Too boring. Nothing to say about a place I stand in three times a day. Finally sat down with it last week and I think I get now why I avoided it. It's the hardest subject I've ever painted and I've done a whole summer of plein air. Familiar means you know every wrong angle, every shadow that doesn't sit right. You can't fudge it because you can feel when it's off. The mug tree was the thing that nearly broke me. Those little wooden branches crisscrossing. I must have repainted it four times. Eventually I stopped trying to paint each branch and just painted the light falling through them and you know what, the branches showed up on their own. I haven't been this nervous to show a piece to my husband since I first started painting again. He looked at it for a long time and just said "that's our kitchen." That was it. That was the whole review. Now I'm scared to do the kids' bathroom.

I finally did it. I packed up my little travel easel and drove out to the lake this morning before the kids woke up, and painted the same view I've been chickening out on since June. The light on the water kept changing every fifteen minutes and I nearly gave up twice, but I just kept blocking in and repainting until something stuck. It's not my best work. But it's the first plein air thing I've actually seen through to the end instead of coming home with a muddy mess and a headache. I've been doing that since my workshop in April and I thought maybe outdoor painting just wasn't for me. Anyway. It's propped up in the kitchen drying and I keep walking past it feeling weirdly proud. If you've been avoiding trying something new for months, just pack the bag and go. The worst case is you come home with a muddy mess and a headache, which is where you already are.

two years it's been leaning against the wall in my studio, face turned away like I couldn't stand to look at it. this landscape I started right after my brother died, trying to paint the place we scattered his ashes, and it was just... bad. muddy. overworked. I couldn't touch it. today I finally pulled the staples out. ripped the canvas off the frame. just let it crumple on the floor. and then I cut out the only part of it that worked, maybe six square inches of sky, and glued it into my sketchbook. like a little window. the rest went in the trash. felt like I could breathe again.

Took me three weeks to get back into the studio proper after Christmas. You know the way, kids back to school, chest infection going round, the whole place damp and cold and the ink was like treacle. Kept finding reasons to just tidy the bench instead of cutting. Anyway last night I finally pulled a proof of a block I started in November. Big heron, neck curved down, standing in that shallow water you get on the Corrib at low tide. First proof was rank, cut too deep in the wing feathers, lost the line. Had the whole thing sitting there mocking me. Pulled a second proof at half eleven last night with a different black and a lighter touch on the roller. And the missus came down to see what I was at, coffee in hand, looked at it drying on the rack, and said "that's grand now, that's a nice one." For her that's the highest praise you'll get. No fuss. Took herself back up to bed. Sometimes you just need to get through the bad version to find the good one. And a "that's grand" off someone who's seen every failed print you've ever made. That'll do.

finally cold-emailed that artist whose work i've been following for years. the one whose collages made me want to start tearing up my own paper. nothing fancy, just said her piece about abandoned buildings in detroit changed how i see negative space and thanked her. she replied in like four hours. wrote back a real paragraph. i've been walking around the apartment holding my phone like an idiot. small thing but it's not small. sending the email was harder than any brushstroke i've made this month.

my studio is an uninsulated garage and it's 40°f in there today. i've got a space heater pointed at my feet and i'm working anyway because i've been avoiding this piece for two weeks and the avoidance is worse than the cold. there's something about winter studio time that i actually don't hate. no pressure to be productive because everyone assumes you're suffering. low bar. anything i make between december and february feels like a bonus. currently hunched over a painting i'm pretty sure i ruined yesterday. might just let it stay ruined and see what happens next. sometimes the ruined ones end up being the ones i don't hate.

I've been working on a study of Fritillaria meleagris, the snake's head fritillary, and I keep running into the same problem with one particular passage. The grid pattern on the tepals requires a very controlled lift to get those pale chequered marks out of a darker wash, and my usual standby burnt sienna from Winsor & Newton is staining the paper in a way I can't work around. It's a lovely pigment for many things but it simply will not lift cleanly once it's dried for more than about thirty seconds. I've tried different papers, different dilution levels, even switching to a synthetic sienna from another brand, and the behaviour is the same. I know there are artists who pre-wet the area and work into a damp surface to avoid the problem, but that sacrifices the crispness of the edge I need. I wonder if some of you have found a particular brand or formulation of burnt sienna that lifts more cooperatively, or if you simply avoid it for this kind of work and use something else entirely. I am not ready to give up the colour, it is exactly the right earthy rust for this species, but I might have to adjust my method.

had a piece sitting half-done on my easel for three weeks because i was convinced i'd ruin it. client wanted something outside my usual thing, more muted, less of the loud color i do. kept finding reasons to avoid the studio. finally just sat down yesterday morning and hammered it out in like six hours straight. no music. just me and the dread. and it's... good? i think it's good. they're gonna like it. i don't hate it. anyway that feeling of something you've been avoiding turning out fine is genuinely one of the best. felt like i could breathe again after.

I had a new student in my botanical watercolor class yesterday. She's a pleasant enough woman, retired, looking for a hobby. We were going through the basics of setting up a composition from a live specimen, a simple cyclamen leaf, and she asked, quite earnestly, if she could just take a photograph of it and trace the outline instead. I explained that tracing would defeat the purpose of learning to see, which is rather the whole point of the exercise. She seemed unconvinced. She said it would save time and look neater. I suggested she give it a proper try first, and if she still wanted to trace at the end of class, I would help her. She did not want to trace by the end of class. But the amount of energy I had to spend not saying "you are paying me to teach you to draw, not to show you how to avoid learning to draw" was considerable. I understand that people want shortcuts. I do. Watercolor is difficult and it takes years to develop any real control. But the shortcuts don't actually get you where you want to go. They just leave you dependent on the shortcut. I suppose I am old-fashioned about this. Learning to see, really see, is the skill. Everything else is technique layered on top of that foundation.

Sold a 16x20 charcoal portrait this week for $180 and I finally did the math I've been avoiding for years. 22 hours on it. That's $8.18 an hour and I'm honestly embarrassed I typed that out. The worst part is I knew better. She was my aunt's friend so I did the "family discount" thing before she even asked. Aunt's friend, not even family. I gave away money nobody asked me to give away. I keep doing this. I price from fear. Fear that if I say $400 she'll say no and I'll have wasted the charcoal. But I already spent the hours. The hours are spent either way. I'm not mad at her. I'm mad that I can't seem to stop being the one who underprices myself before anyone else gets the chance to do it. Every single time. Like I'm pre-emptively apologizing for being worth something. Gonna sit with $8.18 for a while and try to actually feel it instead of just doing the math again next time and doing the same thing.

I realised something yesterday while I was pulling proofs that I already knew but hadn't admitted: the part I love most is the preparation. The drawing on the plate, the aquatint, the biting, the masking. The thinking part. Then I get to the printing and something in me checks out. I rush it. I'm already onto the next idea. I used to think this meant I was lazy or not a "real" printmaker but maybe it's just that my brain likes potential more than completion. The proof is where everything is still possible. Once it's an edition it's just... fixed. Decided. I have about 40 copper plates sitting in a drawer that are etched and ready and I haven't printed. Some from two years ago. I tell myself I'm saving them for the right paper or the right mood but honestly I think I just don't want them to be finished. Anyone else work this way or am I just avoiding the hard part?

did the math last night because rent is due and i was avoiding opening the bank app. since january i've bought 14 tubes. used 4 of them. the other 10 are sitting in a drawer like little expensive witnesses. the stupid part is i know exactly why. buying a new color feels like starting a new painting, and starting a new painting feels better than finishing the one on the easel that's been fighting me since march. so i buy the tube, feel a little hit of promise, put it in the drawer, go back to the same six colors i always use. anyway the drawer is now a graveyard of good intentions and i'm still on the same six colors. not really a complaint. more of a confession.

Finished a Naples yellow tube today. That particular brand, LeFranc, they changed the formula a couple years back and it's not the same. The new one is cleaner, more obedient. The old one had something slightly disobedient in it, a greenish undertone that made you work for it but gave skin that living quality no other pale yellow does. I rolled the empty tube flat and put it in the drawer with the others. I don't know why I keep them. It's not hoarding, I throw everything. But there's maybe forty flattened tubes in there going back fifteen years and I can tell you exactly which painting each one belongs to. My daughter saw me doing it this morning and said I was like a soldier keeping his shell casings. She's not wrong. The new tube is waiting in the box. I'll use it. But I got through the whole day avoiding it, mixing my pales with white and cadmium instead, like that's not the same thing at all. All the way to the studio and back I knew I was being ridiculous. Voilà. Tomorrow I'll open it and it'll be fine, it's just paint. Just felt like noting it somewhere people would understand. The rest of the house thinks I've lost my mind over a tube of paint.

had a canvas sitting against the wall since april. every time i walked past it i'd say "tomorrow" and then tomorrow was july. painted over the same corner like six times, hated all six. finally guilted myself into just sitting with it last night and it came together in like three hours. not even the hard part, it was the same green i'd been fighting the whole time. it was never the paint, it was me avoiding the thing it was asking for. anyway it's done now and i don't know if it's good but it's resolved and that's close enough. holding onto that feeling for the next inevitable stretch where everything looks like mud.

Dug a box of my brother's slides out of storage today. He shot hundreds of them, all family stuff, all from the 90s judging by the haircuts. I've been projecting them onto the back wall one by one while I work and honestly it's derailed the whole afternoon. There's a whole roll of just my mom's kitchen counter. The same counter. Fifteen frames of it, slightly different angles. I don't know what he was doing. Now the room smells like warm plastic and I'm trying to figure out if I can incorporate the projector noise into something or if I'm just avoiding the piece I'm supposed to be finishing. Probably the second one. The lamp in the projector is dying too, so everything's got this greenish flicker to it. Might just lean into it. Let the light do the decaying for me.

my brother was not good at photography. like, genuinely bad. half the frames are his thumb. the other half are blurry pictures of things he was excited about, usually food or our cousin's dog. but I found the box of negatives last week, tucked behind some tax paperwork in a closet I'd been avoiding. spent the whole weekend making contact sheets in the darkroom at the community center, just to see what was on them. there's this one where he's trying to photograph the ocean and instead got like, a wall of beige blur. and I can't stop looking at it. it's so incompetent. it's so him. I've been staring at it like it's the most profound thing I've ever seen. I'm going to try to work with these somehow. torn paper collages from the contact sheets maybe, or cyanotypes of his worst frames. not sure yet. but I've been sitting with the fact that he put all this energy into documenting his life and most of it is just... bad. and that's the whole point somehow. anyway. if anyone has experience working with found negatives that are mostly garbage, I'd love to hear how you approached it without making it sentimental garbage yourself.

Okay so I finally did the thing I'd been avoiding for months and went through every commission I took last year. Added up all the hours, all the money, all the materials. Average came out to like €11 an hour and that's just... not a living wage where I live. And I already knew it was bad, but seeing it in a little spreadsheet made me feel genuinely sick for a day. So I raised my prices. Not wildly, like 25% on the mid-range stuff and more on the bigger pieces. And immediately two people who'd been "definitely going to commission me soon" for months just went quiet. Poof. Never heard from them again. One of them had even sent me a moodboard and asked me to hold a date for them. And I keep going back and forth, like did I price myself out of the people who actually wanted my work? Or were they never going to pay me fairly anyway? I think I know the answer. But it's hard when the quiet is so loud, you know? The worst part is the people who DID book in at the new prices have been my favorite clients ever. Which feels like it should be the lesson. But I still spent an hour last night being mad at myself for losing the other two. Anyway. If you've done the spreadsheet math and kept your prices the same after, I'd genuinely love to know what stops you from raising them, because I get it more than I want to. 🙂

went in today with a real plan. sat down. stared at the half-finished thing on the easel. opened instagram. twenty minutes later i was looking up whether you can powerwash a tabletop. i don't even own a powerwasher. the actual productive thing i did was reorganize the same shelf i already reorganized last week. so that was cool. three tubes of paint i forgot i had. they're probably fine. they're not fine. the irony is i work better when i'm avoiding something else. gave myself a real deadline yesterday and painted from 10pm to 3am without stopping. today i have nothing pressing and i've achieved nothing. make it make sense.

Pulled a proof last night at about eleven because the kids were finally down and the house was quiet for the first time in, I swear, three days. Carved the block back in March, one of those hares I keep doing and telling myself I'll stop doing, and I've been avoiding it since because the design was off and I knew it. So I sat there with the light on over the sink, rolled the ink, and pulled it. And you know what, it was grand. Not perfect. The ear's still bothering me. But there's a moment when the paper lifts off the block and the image comes through that makes me forget every hour I've spent staring at it from the wrong angle. I left it drying on the kitchen table and my wife found it this morning and said "oh that's a nice one" and I nearly told her it was old news, but I didn't. I just said thanks and made the tea. Still think the ear is wrong though. Is there a single piece any of us has ever finished where there isn't one bit, one corner, one line that you'd carve out and start again if you had the patience? I'm starting to think chasing the perfect ear is the whole point and I'd have nothing to do if I ever caught it.