Search

I cannot paint in silence. It feels like the room is waiting for something. And I cannot paint with music that has words I understand, my brain grabs onto them and I'm lost. For years it was Radiohead on repeat, which my husband found inexplicable. Now it's the same five playlists of baroque chamber music, mostly Couperin and Rameau, nothing dramatic. The rhythm of it gets into my hand somehow. If the tempo changes too much I notice. Today I tried to work without anything playing and I spent twenty minutes mixing a colour I already had right on the palette. Just staring. So I put the headphones on and the painting started behaving. What do you listen to that you'd be embarrassed to admit? I'll start: I know every word of Kid A and I don't even like it anymore. It's just what the paint wants.

A woman from Melbourne found me last month because of a blog post I wrote seven years ago, when I was still teaching and barely painting. It was about why I mix my own colours instead of using tube paints straight, I was annoyed about something, I don't even remember what, and I just wrote it out in fifteen minutes on a Wednesday evening. No photos, no SEO, just a rant about the texture of paint straight from the tube being dead on the canvas. She said she'd read it in 2018, forgot about it, found it again this year while looking for something else entirely. She bought two paintings sight-unseen because she said she could tell I actually cared about the material. And I have spent the last three years posting reels, showing my process, trying to be "engaging" on Instagram, that stuff gets likes from other artists, maybe a commission every few months. This one old piece of writing, sitting there untouched, did more than all of it. I don't know what the lesson is exactly. Keep the old things alive, maybe. Don't throw away the unfashionable parts of how you work just because the algorithm doesn't reward them. Or maybe it's that a real opinion outlasts a good strategy every time.

Myself Ramesh. I want to say something that has been on my mind. In the old way, we make our own colours. Rice paste for white. Lampblack from the diya. The red from kusum flower or from geru, the earth. My mother she would grind these things for hours on the sil-batta, mixing with gum from the babul tree. The colour sits on the paper differently. It breathes. Now many students and even some senior artists are using poster colours from the market. It is faster. Also cheaper sometimes. But I look at those paintings and the line has no life. The colour is flat like plastic. You can feel no hand in it. One girl in my class last month she told me guruji natural colours take too long. I said beta that is not a problem. That is the art itself. The grinding, the mixing, the waiting, this is not wasted time. This is the painting. But I also understand. The buyers they want bright. They want quick. And we must eat. So I am conflicted ji. I use both now. Some natural for my own work, some synthetic when I must. But I feel a little shame mixing the two in one painting. Like I am cheating my grandmother. Anyone else feel this way about old materials vs new ones? Or is it only me.🙂

People ask what colour I use for the black, thinking I will give some shop name. But it is not from any shop. It is soot collected from the clay diya in the puja room, the one that burns through the evening. My mother kept a small brass bowl near it and once in some days she would wipe the inside and that black would go into the bowl. Then with a few drops of gum from the neem tree it becomes the line. The line for the eyes of the kohbar, the fine fish scales, all of it. I have that bowl here. This morning the level was low, so I lit the diya early and sat doing the border of a kohbar piece for a wedding order in Patna while it collected. Only a small amount came. That is the thing with this black, you cannot hurry it, you cannot order it in bulk. If I run out in the middle of a face, the whole face waits. My son says just buy the black paint, Amma is not here now to see. But the brush behaves differently with the soot, it holds. Also the black from the tube has a shine to it, and this should be matte, like the wall of the house. I do not know how to explain it to anyone who has not grown up seeing both. Anyway today I am short of it and there is one more peacock to do. So the peacock also waits.

Today I ground my own green from the neem tree behind the house. My mother used to do this same thing, pluck the leaves, dry them in the shade for three four days, then grind with a little lime to hold the colour. The shade it gives is not bright, not like the market green from a tube. It is dull, dusty, like the underside of a leaf. But when you put it on the paper next to the vermilion it wakes up somehow. That is the thing nobody tells you about natural colour, it needs its neighbours. Alone it looks dead. Put it beside the red, beside the lampblack, and it starts to talk. I was thinking how many years I have been doing this and still the first hour of grinding feels like a waste. Paper dust and powder going everywhere, the colour looking weak, and you think, this is nothing. Then you mix it and you remember. Every single time the same doubt. My grandmother used to say the colour decides whether it will work for you, and you just have to ask politely and wait. She was right, I think. Maybe that is also the whole lesson of this art. You cannot rush the leaf.🙏

My apologies ji, but today the natural pigment for the blue colour is just not listening to me. I am mixing and mixing, using the same process my mother and grandmother taught me, but it is coming out dull, not the vibrant indigo it should be. This is the colour for the peacock's neck, you see, and it must be just so. Perhaps the humidity is too high in Madhubani today? It is frustrating when the materials themselves seem to have a mind of their own.

It's not just about neutralising colour. A good grey has life in it. It can be warm, cool, lean towards blue or violet, have an almost imperceptible undertone of ochre. Today I was trying to match the light on a pewter jug, that soft, luminous shadow. It took several tries, adding tiny touches of raw umber, a whisper of ultramarine, a minuscule bit of flake white. When it was finally right, that quiet hum of satisfaction. It’s a small thing, perhaps, but it’s everything. Voilà.

Myself Ramesh, doing Mithila painting. I want to ask one thing about colours but first I will tell what happened. For the peacock body I use a blue from the nil plant, dried and powdered by my own hand. Old stock was finished. New batch I got from a man in Darbhanga and the blue is coming out flat, like the blue of a plastic bucket, no depth at all. I mixed with a little of the black from lamp soot and the whole thing went grey and dull. Today I took handmade paper, that sheet I keep only for testing colours, and I painted the whole thing over with the new blue in different strengths, twelve patches, one to twelve. Still nothing. The old blue in my mind is the colour of a peacock neck in shade, deep but alive. This one is only sitting there on the paper, doing nothing. Trouble is I have the full border already done in the old blue, fine line, three days of work, and the peacock body will come in the middle. If I use new blue it will not match and the whole painting is spoiled. If I wait for old stock, maybe months, maybe never. Someone told me to use the acrylic blue from the market. Colour will be correct but for me it is not the same work then. Anybody else faced this with natural pigment, one batch gone and the new one not matching? How you manage? I am not asking for sympathy only, I want to know what to actually do.

I have this old hog-bristle flat, maybe a number 12, that I've had since my student days. The ferrule is cracked. The handle is worn down to the bare wood at the grip. And I never fully clean it. I get most of the paint out, but there's always a little dried colour sitting up in the heel, and it stays there. When I dip it in fresh paint, that dried bit rewets and bleeds into whatever I'm mixing on the palette. A ghost of something from two years ago, or ten years ago. I know it's bad practice. I know it changes the colour in ways I can't control. But I've started to think of it as a kind of memory in the brush. Something I didn't intend that still shows up. And sometimes that little impurity is exactly what the surface needed. I have other brushes I treat like surgical instruments. Clean them the moment I stop. But this one I just let be. It has its own life now.

Spent most of this week on two large ones, 190 x 150, and for once the grey held. That sounds small. It is not small. Grey is the thing that eats me alive in the studio. Mixed warm it turns to mud, mixed cool it turns to dishwater, and after three days of layering and scraping back you look at it and feel nothing. This time I took the cold wax down hard, more than I usually dare, and kept the pigment lean. It dried matte, slightly chalky, and the colour underneath keeps showing through at the edges where I dragged the scraper. Two days ago I stood in front of it and did not want to fix anything. That almost never happens. Usually I want to fix everything. The other canvas is still fighting me. Same mix, same hand, and it sits there like wet cardboard. I keep telling myself the good one only looks good because the bad one is next to it, which is probably true and also useless as advice. I have a show in the spring, so the timing is good. The market can do what it does. Right now I am mostly relieved that a colour I have been chasing since about 2019 finally stood still for a minute.

I have this old porcelain palette I've been using for maybe twelve years. It's cracked, the well in the corner has a chip that I keep meaning to sand smooth, and the patina of dried paint around the edges is so thick now it's changed the shape. My students look at it like it's a biohazard. But the thing is, I know exactly where every colour lives on it. My hand goes there without my eyes. I could mix a flesh tone in the dark on that palette. And when I try a clean one, a nice new piece of glass, even, I'm suddenly a stranger to myself. The mixes come out wrong. I'm hesitating. There's something about the accumulated stain of years that becomes part of the process. The ghost of a terre verte I mixed three weeks ago still faintly in the white. The smear of lead white that's been there so long it's practically fired on. It's not laziness. It's memory.

A 180 x 140, stretched it myself in early March, and then it just sat there on the easel like an accusation every time I crossed the studio. Not blocked, exactly. Not afraid, either. Just nothing rising. Some canvases wait for a feeling and I kept trying to force one in. Today I stopped trying. Mixed a cold wax ground with a little raw umber until it was the colour of wet pavement and just pushed it on with a drywall knife, no plan, no sketch, no idea what happens next. Took maybe twenty minutes and the whole weight of the month went out of the room. I don't know what will come after. That's the honest part. But the white is gone and I can work again. Sometimes the first layer is just permission. People overestimate inspiration and underestimate how much of painting is lowering your own bar far enough to start.

I mixed a big batch of cadmium red deep with a little burnt umber and a touch of cold wax medium last Tuesday. Laid it down in a broad band across the bottom third of a 180 x 140. Looked right. Earthy but alive. Yesterday I walked in and it had gone brown. Flat and dead. Not dried differently, the mixture itself seems to have settled or separated or just decided to be something else overnight. This happens to me more than I'd like and I still don't fully understand the chemistry. The pigment particles are heavy, I know that. Maybe the cold wax lets them migrate in ways I'm not accounting for. Or maybe I'm just not mixing thoroughly enough. But I stir it for a good five minutes, scrape and fold. I'm wondering if other people have a colour they love that reliably betrays them after a day. And if you've found a fix that isn't just mixing fresh every session because at this scale that gets expensive fast.

Forty minutes into the morning class, a woman who has been painting for eleven months puts down a grey that made me stop mid-sentence. Not a grey from a tube. She mixed it herself, three pigments she had no business combining yet, and it was exactly the colour of the north wall of my studio in November at five in the afternoon. I have been chasing that grey for something like twenty years and mostly failing. The thing that annoyed me, and I mean this sincerely, is that she did not notice. I said something, she shrugged, she said it looked muddy and went back to her shadow side. I spent the rest of the session working on a hand in a portrait commission and thinking about that grey. A good grey is genuinely one of the most difficult things in this whole business. You can teach value, you can teach the drawing, you can teach edges until you are hoarse. You cannot teach someone to arrive at a particular grey on the right day. It happens when it happens. Then she wiped it off the palette at the end of the class with a rag like it was dirty water.

My daylight lamp gave up after seven years, the one I've matched every colour against. So today I went to the shop and the only full-spectrum option they had was an LED panel that hums and makes everything look slightly blue-green. I tried to match a skin tone I've mixed a hundred times and it came out wrong, muddy, like a bruise. I know it's just a lamp. I know. But I sat there for about twenty minutes convinced I've forgotten how to paint, that all those years of doing this were a fluke and now the one lamp that knew me is gone. Then I remembered I'd left the blinds open and there was actual sun coming in, so the whole panic was literally just bad lighting. Still painted the whole afternoon under the hum anyway because I'd already dragged the thing up the stairs and I'm stubborn. Anyone else have one piece of kit that's basically furniture now and the thought of replacing it is worse than the actual replacement?

This morning I was mixing indigo from the neel we had dried since last winter. The powder was fine, I added the gum arabic slowly, little water at a time, same way my mother taught me forty years ago. But the colour came out thin. Washed out. Not that deep blue-black I need for Kali's hair. I sat there stirring and stirring, adding a pinch more pigment, and I thought, maybe it is me, not the neel. Maybe my hands are not feeling the consistency the same anymore. My daughter, she is learning from me now, and she said "Papa, just use the tube colour, nobody will know." But I would know. I ended up using that wash anyway. Thin layers, built up slowly. It took two hours more than it should have. The result is different, lighter, a little uneven, but maybe that is also okay. Not everything has to be the same as what my grandmother did. She also had days when the neel didn't cooperate, I am sure. Anyone else have materials that suddenly stop listening to you? Or is it just my old hands. 🙏

There's this moment before I start, I scrape the palette clean with the knife, even if it's already clean from yesterday. That thin metal sound across the glass. Then I lay out the white, the earth colours, the few others I'll use. It's almost a little ritual. I don't know if it prepares me or just delays the moment of actually having to commit the first stroke. Today I had a tube of lead white that's stiffened to almost butter. Had to warm it in my hand for five minutes. Annoying but I like it more than the runny zinc stuff. You pay for the trouble, you know? The paint behaves better. How do you start? Not the aspirational version. The actual one.

Namaste to all ji. I want to ask one thing from those who have approached galleries. My own case: a gallery in Delhi asked for my work, and I sent the Mithila painting as it is done in our family, natural colours, fish and peacock, the old stories. They replied saying it is "very traditional" and asked whether I also do something more modern. I did not change. I said this is the work, this is what my mother and grandmother did. Nothing came of it. But I am still thinking. Some people told me I should have sent a mix, old work plus some new style, so they see the range. Others said no, if a gallery wants you to become someone else, that is not your gallery. So my question to you: when you went to a gallery the first time, did you show your real work or the work you thought they wanted? And how did it go for you. Tell me honestly, I will not feel bad. 🙏

Some years ago I started keeping a second column in the studio ledger for unbilled hours, mostly so I could see the shape of my own dishonesty rather than guess at it. I log them at the end of each week: the colour tests nobody pays for, the second visit to the garden because the first material had gone over, the correspondence, the scanning, the trip to the framer. This year it stands at 61 hours. On a single plate of Helleborus niger, three of those hours were spent mixing and rejecting greens. Three hours on leaves that never went near the board. I am not sure whether the exercise has made me better at pricing or only more aware of how badly I do it. My inclination is that a rate quoted honestly would make the work look expensive, and I would rather be thought reasonable than be paid properly. That is not a flattering thing to write down. But it is the most useful number in the book.

Every morning I light the diya near my work table before I sit down. Not for show. The soot that gathers on the clay saucer, I wipe it with my finger and keep it in an old Horlicks jar, the glass one with the yellow lid. My daughter saw this and said, Amma, why you are storing dirt, we can buy black colour from the shop, it is only sixty rupees. She is not wrong about the shop. But that soot black is different. It sits on the paper like something alive, and when I mix it with a little gum arabic and water it takes three days to settle properly, and if I use it too early the whole line goes grey and dull. Sixty rupees black will not teach you patience. This one will. Today I am filling in the fine cross hatching on a Kohbar panel, the chamber of the newly married ones, and it is slow work with a brush of two squirrel hairs. My hand starts shaking after one hour now. It did not use to. So I stop, drink tea, come back. The panel will take me maybe eleven days at this rate. Some of the younger girls I teach want to finish a whole painting in one sitting. I tell them the soot will not allow it. They laugh. Then they try. Anyway the jar is nearly full and I have no second jar, so I must decide what to do. Any of you keep something like this, some leftover from your own process that you cannot throw and cannot quite explain?