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Kept it in the bottom of my toolbox like I was going to fix it. You don't fix a chisel that splits at the tang. I knew that. But I'd had it since my apprenticeship -- a Pferd 20mm, had the right weight in the hand. Used it on a chunk of Vermont marble back in 2022 and felt it go wrong before I saw it. Put it in the drawer anyway. Tossed it this morning. Felt stupid about it. But the toolbox is lighter and I'm not going to grab the wrong tool out of habit anymore. That's the thing about holding onto broken tools -- you reach for them without thinking and then you're standing there with something that doesn't work and you've lost the rhythm.

Took me forty-five years and a divorce to say it out loud but here we are: if someone hands me a theme and a deadline, my brain turns off like a switch. I stare at the wall. I cut and reset the same piece of stone six times. I produce something technically fine that I don't care about. Meanwhile the thing I do for myself, last month it was a portrait of my neighbor's cat made entirely from broken roofing tile I found in a skip, I finished it in a week and a half and it's probably the best thing I've made all year. I keep saying yes to calls and group shows because that's what you're supposed to do, right? Get your work out there. Network. But I think I'm done pretending I function that way. I'll take the solo slow route even if nobody sees it for a while.

She told me my photos were too dark. That the lighting was "giving dungeon." She wanted me to show my face more, film myself working, add trending audio. I sat there in the meeting and I thought, I'm 58 years old. I build environments from scrap metal and broken furniture. I am not a content creator. I am not a brand. I am a person who makes things in a studio that looks like a bomb went off in a scrapyard. But the thing is she wasn't wrong about the engagement numbers. They're flat. They've been flat. And I don't know what to do with that information because I refuse to make the kind of content that would fix it. So I'm stuck in this weird space where I understand the game and I also refuse to play it. Anyone else just quietly accepting obscurity because the alternative looks unbearable?

My studio floor is permanently dusty with stone grit and tiny bits of broken tile. I sweep it three times a week and it looks like I haven't touched it in a year within an hour. I've given up pretending otherwise. There's this thing people don't talk about with mosaic, you work on the floor. Not at a table, not at an easel, on the floor. On your knees, leaning over, getting up stiff. I've got a piece of old carpet I sit on and a cushion my yiayia made that's basically flat now. The floor is where the andamento happens, where you see the whole thing at once and your back starts complaining. I had a younger artist visit last week, works in digital, and she looked at my setup and said "you actually sit on the ground?" like I was doing something exotic. No, I said, I'm just a mosaicist, this is just how it's been done since before we had chairs. Anyway. I'm about to sweep again. It'll be dusty by tomorrow.

after six straight firings where something cracked, blew up, or decided to become a puddle at the bottom, i finally opened the kiln this morning and everything came out in one piece. like actually recognisable as the things i put in there. i stood there holding a little face jug like it was a newborn or something. dumb smile on my face. my studio mate was like "are you okay" and i was like no i'm not okay actually this has never happened before. the little victories. the bar is on the floor and i'm still celebrating.

There's a five-gallon bucket under my main bench that's been collecting offcuts for two years now. Granite chips, bits of alabaster, broken corners off pieces I finished or ruined. I tell myself I'll use them for something someday. Mosaic maybe. Or just crush them for texture in a base. I've never done it. I just keep dropping scraps in there and looking at it sometimes. Some habits are just habits. Not everything needs a reason. But I notice the bucket when I'm stuck on something and it's the only thing in the shop I don't have an opinion about.

Opened the studio this weekend for the open studios thing. Nothing special, just a chance for people to wander through. Middle of the afternoon a woman maybe my age comes in with her daughter, maybe twenty. Walks straight to a piece I made three years ago from an old boiler door and some broken factory gearing. Stands there. Then she says to her daughter, very quietly, I wasn't meant to hear, "Look. Someone saved this." That's it. Thats the win. Someone saved it. Not someone made art from it. Someone saved it. I've been thinking about that sentence for three days. She understood the whole thing in four words better than any critic ever has.

I have a box of my ex-husband's old tax returns. Not for any sentimental reason. Just feels wrong to toss someone's financial records in the bin, even if they're from 2012. They sit in the bottom of my supply closet next to a bag of dried-out markers. Also have a broken ceramic rabbit my mom gave me when I got divorced. She meant well. The ear fell off in 2020. I glued it back on badly and now it stares at me from the shelf like a little insult. What's the thing in your studio that has no business being there but you can't get rid of?

Started painting again this morning after three days of not touching anything, work stuff piled up, you know how it goes. And I sat down with my palette and realised I was reaching for the same brush I always reach for first. This old Winsor & Newton series 7, size 6 round. The ferrule is slightly loose now, I should probably fix it, but I just can't use anything else for the first wash. I've bought fancier ones. Tried a silver brush black velvet that everyone raves about. It's good, it's fine. But this one has been through every bad painting and every good one. It holds water just right even if it's a little beat up. It's not even my most expensive brush. It's just mine. My husband says I'm superstitious. Maybe. But there's something about having a tool that's broken in with your own bad habits. You know exactly how it's going to behave, even when it misbehaves. Does anyone else have that one thing, brush, pen, pencil, whatever, that you keep going back to even though you have nicer ones? Or am I just being sentimental over a loose ferrule 😅

finally worked up the nerve to push my prices up in february. small jump, nothing crazy, a handbuilt mug went from €28 to €34, a medium sculptural piece from €80 to €96. i made a whole spreadsheet about it. felt very professional. then march and april happened and i sold literally nothing through my online shop. not one piece. i started checking my own site like an idiot, refreshing, "is the add to cart button broken??" no, just nobody wanted it at the new number. i almost caved and dropped them back down last week but my friend who's been doing this longer told me to wait. she said the first silence after a raise is just the market recalibrating, or something. sounded like bullshit at the time. may i've sold three pieces. not a landslide. but the weird thing is the people buying now don't haggle. nobody. before, every single sale came with a "any discount for buying two?" or a "could you do €25?" and i'd fold immediately. now they just... pay it. and i'm making more on three sales than i used to make on six. still feels fragile. like the second i relax the silence comes back. but i think she might have been right.

there's a shelf in my studio that's just mended plates and cups with chunks missing. I can't stop picking them up. something about a crack that someone already tried to fix with that bright gold kintsugi stuff, or a handle that's been glued back slightly wrong. they feel more alive than the perfect ones. I've got about fourteen now and zero plan. maybe I'll embed them in something. maybe they're just gonna sit there judging me until I figure it out. anyone else collect things they can't use yet?

I spent yesterday afternoon reorganizing the flat files, moving the drying rack, finally putting the riso where I can actually reach it without climbing over a chair. Everything has a place now. It's beautiful. I walked in this morning and sat down and couldn't do a thing. It's not just the disruption. It's that the chaos was doing something for me, the mess had a logic, piles I'd reach for without thinking, everything I needed within arm's reach even if it looked like a disaster to anyone else. Now I have to learn where I live again. I keep opening the wrong drawer. Maybe there's something here about how the friction of a space is part of how we think in it. The stumble, the wrong drawer, the thing you knock over, that's also material. A too-efficient studio is a studio that doesn't talk back. Or maybe I just need a week to break it in again. But I'm annoyed at myself for fixing something that wasn't broken.

There's this portrait I did maybe four months ago, a woman in profile, soft grey paper, pink and ochre pastel. The jaw is wrong, the ear sits too high, I gave up halfway and just let it sit there unfinished. I should have thrown it away so many times but I pinned it up instead, right where I see it first when I sit down to work. At first it just made me angry. Like, look at this, you can't even get a jaw right. But somewhere along the way it turned into a kind of permission slip. If I can start the day seeing that thing and still pick up a pastel anyway, then nothing else I do that day can be that bad. It's like a baseline for failure that makes everything else feel less scary. My partner thinks it's morbid. Maybe it is. But I've done more work in these last few months than in the whole year before, and I think the ugly little pin-up is part of it. Does anyone else keep something broken around to remind yourself it's fine to fail?