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I work part-time at a paper conservation studio, and last week one of the conservators asked if she could keep one of my collages on the reference shelf. Not to display. To study how the layers sit together, how the adhesives hold up over time. It's the kindest thing anyone's said about my work in a while, because she meant it as a materials question, not a compliment. It was a small piece, mostly a torn map fragment and a bit of old ledger paper. The sort of thing that takes me three weeks and looks almost accidental. She's seen a hundred years of paper fail, so her keeping it around says something about how it's made that I actually trust more than a gallery wall. I walked home in the drizzle feeling steadier than I have in months. Small win, but it's mine.

A man at a market stall today, watching me pack up, said he loved one of the small collages but wondered if I'd take it out of "that cheap white frame" so he could put it in "something proper," gold, heavy. He meant well. That's the thing, they always mean well. I charge the work, not the frame. The frame is a 49-krona pine thing from Clas Ohlson because the work is the paper, and gold would kill it. But I stood there doing the polite smile and saying "it's part of the piece" while he kept telling me he knew a framer who could do it properly, like the glass mattered more than what's behind it. Didn't tell him most of my work isn't even framed. It's pinned. The paper breathes. Anyway. Four hours in that hall and the one person who stopped long enough to look properly was a woman who asked if the pages were from a hymnbook. They were. She got it. I sold her the one with the torn corner for less than I should have and I don't regret it.

i've been staring at this one collage for six months convinced it was dead. the paper was curling, the glue had gone yellow in patches, i'd layered too much and it just read as noise. nearly threw it out twice. yesterday i flipped it upside down and looked at it that way for like ten minutes. i don't know why that changes things but it does. turned it back and suddenly i could see what it was supposed to be. one piece of tape removed, one charcoal line added, and it just clicked. it's not going in any gallery. nobody will ever see it. but i slept better last night than i have in weeks. sometimes the win is just the thing stops fighting you.

I delivered a small piece last week, 20x25cm, torn pages from a 1930s French anatomy book, just three elements on a pale ground. Charged €250. The gallery sells my work at €480 and takes 50%, so I got €240. It took me 14 hours because I kept scrapping it and starting again. That's about €17 an hour before materials. I know the math is bad. Objectively I know. But I also know I wouldn't have made it faster if I'd rushed. The quiet part is I'm not sure I want to work faster. I want to sit with a piece until it's right. That's the whole point of doing this. I don't know what to do with that. Raise the price and risk the gallery dropping me? Accept that collage is a loss leader for a life I'd be living anyway?

Working on this piece built around a found photograph from the 70s, this woman standing in a doorway, someone's aunt probably. I tore the paper around her and layered it onto a board with charcoal and acrylic. But there's this one hinge point where the photograph meets the torn paper and it just won't sit right. I keep adjusting the collage thinking the composition is off, then yesterday I realized the piece works fine everywhere except exactly where those two papers meet. The problem is the junction itself, not what's around it. Every fix I try makes it worse. I pulled a strip of paper off and now there's a gap, so I'm just staring at this torn edge like it's going to solve itself. Anyone else ever had a piece where one seam is the whole problem? Where you keep blaming the surrounding work and it turns out to be the one physical joint you chose?

A woman bought one of the small ones in November, 24x30, six pieces of torn paper and a lot of nothing. I asked 3,200 kronor. She paid without blinking. That is the part that stays with me. Not that she paid it. That it took her four seconds. I priced it by counting hours, which is the wrong way to price anything I make, because the hours are mostly me standing at the window deciding not to glue something down. Comes to maybe 700 an hour if I only count the cutting. If I count the thinking it is a joke. So now I have a number that works and I am afraid of it. Not afraid to say it again, afraid that it was luck, that the next person will look at the same size and hear the number and go quiet. And I have already caught myself, twice, drafting a lower figure for a piece that is actually harder. A 40x50 with hand-torn edges from a 1940s Swedish reader. I sat with the email open for an hour. The conservation work pays by the hour and nobody argues about it. Paper is paper. The art is the only thing I do where the price has to come out of me. Anyway. I raised the small ones to 3,600 this month. Nothing has sold since. I am not sorry yet but it has only been three weeks.

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.

I had this piece on the wall for two weeks. Looked at it every morning with my coffee. Knew something was off but couldn't name it. Yesterday I took it down and started gessoing over the bottom third. The composition was fine. The papers were good. But the whole lower section had this weight to it that the rest didn't earn. I kept trying to fix it by adding more and it just got worse. Now there's a grey rectangle where the bottom used to be and I already like it better. Feels like clearing my throat. Anyone else sit on something for weeks only to realise the fix was to remove half of it?

Nine months on this piece. Torn paper and a 1962 photo of a gas station I found in a box at an estate sale. Kept putting the same corner in and taking it out. My studio mate would come by and go "oh, it's that one again" and I'd want to throw it at her head. Yesterday I flipped the damn gas station upside down. Just to see. And that was it. The whole thing fell open like it was waiting for me to stop being precious about it. I don't know why it took that long. I think I was attached to what the photo was instead of what it could do. Anyway. It's done. Frame's too small now but I'll deal with that later. Sometimes the work just needs you to be wrong about it for a while.

Found a stack of them last night while reorganizing the studio. Little torn corners of paper where workshop folks wrote "this is my favorite piece so far" or just "????" or once a tiny drawn arrow pointing at a scrap of found photograph with "who is this?" in pencil. People always want to know which one matters to me and it's always the question marks. "????" means they actually stopped. The compliments slide off, but a real question stays in you for weeks. I keep them in a shoebox on the shelf next to the charcoal dust. Not sure why. It's not sentimental exactly, or maybe it is. They're the closest thing I have to a studio journal that isn't about me.

Not a strategy, more an accident. I put up a piece in March with four words: "torn pages, 12 by 16." Because I couldn't think of anything and it was late and I wanted to go to bed. It got more saves than the twelve posts before it combined. Most of the comments were people asking what the paper was, which I answered, and then a woman in Oslo asked if she could buy it and did. Since then I've tried writing "properly" again. Two paragraphs on the process, the source book, why I left the right side empty. Numbers went back down. So either the algorithm punishes effort or I am a bad writer about my own work, and I suspect the second one. When I explain the work I am explaining it to myself, and that is not interesting to anyone else. The awkward part is I don't want to become someone who refuses to speak about their work as a bit. I like reading what other people say about theirs. I just don't think I have anything true to say about mine beyond the size and the paper. Curious whether this holds up for other people or if it was a one-off and I've learned nothing.

I finally did the math on a piece I finished last month. 3500 SEK. That's about 87 SEK an hour before materials. The paper alone cost maybe 400 SEK, old French book pages, which I import because nobody here stocks the right weight. So 77 SEK an hour. I knew it was bad but I hadn't added it up. The piece is 15x15 cm. Fifteen centimeters. I could have done it faster and it would have been worse, but still. That's the price the person paid without blinking, so I can't blame them. I don't know what I'd even charge to make it worth it. 9000? 12000? And then it sits in my shop for a year. At least with the low price it moved.

I spent the morning sorting a box of offcuts I've been keeping since last spring. Anything smaller than a stamp goes into it. Hand-marbled endpapers from a 1901 hymnal I took apart, mostly. Some scraps I have not touched in eleven months and will not touch. I know this. Still could not do it. The box went back on the shelf, slightly tidier, which is not the same as emptied. The whole point of collage is that you take things apart, so the hoarding makes no sense on paper. Then again the scraps are the work. Every piece I have finished came out of a box like that one. I'm not asking for advice. I think I just wanted to write down that I failed at a very small task, in a room by myself, and it took the whole morning.

I spent yesterday evening peeling a piece of 1950s bookplate off a backing board and it just tore. Not a clean lift, the whole inner corner shredded. My own mistake, wrong adhesive when I mounted it two years ago, and now the paper is gone with it. At conservation we'd call it a lesson in reversibility. At home it's just me being annoyed at myself. There's a strange thing though. That torn corner, that little loss, it's actually the most alive part of the collage now. The rest is too neat. I've been staring at it all morning trying to decide if I'm going to fix it or leave it as the best piece of the whole thing.

I brought a folder of twenty pieces to mine. The gallerist looked at maybe four, then asked what I was reading. We talked about books for half an hour and she took one small collage on consignment. I've never once needed the other sixteen. So what did you actually bring, and did it matter? A big portfolio, one piece, a laptop, nothing at all? I'm curious whether the pile ever does the work or if it's always something else.

I had a gallery once that took my collages and then asked if I could "add more colour" to fit the rest of the show. I said no, and that was that. But it stuck with me, how much are you willing to adjust your work for a space? Has a gallery ever asked you to change what you make to suit them? And did you do it, or walk?

Had a gallerist once who liked my portfolio but asked if I could "make it more colourful" before they'd show it. I said no. Didn't hear back. Still not sure if that was the right call or just stubbornness. I make quiet beige collage work, it's not going to suddenly become neon. But I do wonder sometimes if a little flexibility would have opened a door. Anyone else been asked to change what they make to fit a space? Did you bend or walk?

found a box of my parents' old divorce papers in my storage unit last weekend. thirty years of legal filings, bank statements from accounts that don't exist anymore, letters between lawyers. almost threw it out. instead i spent three days tearing it up and collaging it onto a panel with charcoal over the top. felt gross at first, like i was violating something. then i realized those papers were already dead. the marriage was dead, the money long gone. i'm just making something honest out of the paperwork of it all. nobody's seen it yet. not sure i want anyone to, actually. but it's the most alive i've felt in the studio in months. there's something about using the actual artifacts instead of just alluding to them. does anyone else keep the raw material of their own mess and turn it into work? or is that just me being morbid

I sold a piece last month for 3,500 SEK. Small collage, maybe 30x40cm, took me about a week of evenings because I kept setting it aside and coming back. The buyer is a friend of a friend, not quite a stranger, not quite someone I know. She said "are you sure that's enough?" and I said yes like a reflex. Then I went home and realised I'd just told someone my time and materials and eye and everything I've learned are worth maybe 60 SEK an hour. I still don't know what the right number would have been. But I know I named it first and that was the mistake. Next time someone asks I'm going to say "what's your budget" and let them set the floor before I open my mouth. I've never done that before and it feels uncomfortable but less uncomfortable than the walk home after underselling yourself.

I'll go first. I turned up at a small gallery here in Gothenburg with a folder of collages, no appointment, asked if they had five minutes. They did not. The woman at the desk was kind about it and took my card, and I heard nothing, and honestly she was right. I know the answer is supposed to be email first. But I've also had the opposite happen: a place that ignored three emails was perfectly pleasant when I showed up in person, because there was a person standing there instead of a name in an inbox. So which is it for you? Walk in or email? And if you walked in, how did it actually go. I want the real stories, not the version you'd tell a workshop.