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They said no, of course. You cannot put a photograph of rotten floorboards on the front of a poster, people will think the building is falling down. Which it is, a little. That is the piece. So the poster has a nice wide shot of the whole room, everything lit evenly, you can see the arc of it, very impressive, and nobody walks in ready for the smell. The smell is half the work. Wet plaster and old wool and something I have never identified, from a mattress I took out of a skip in Žižkov in 2019. Visitors come in, they get the smell, and then they stand there for a while doing the arithmetic of what they are standing in. My point is not that marketing people are philistines. Half of them are better at reading a room than the curators. My point is that the thing that actually pulls someone off the street is almost never the thing that fits on the poster. It is the detail that sounds like a mistake. I have started keeping a folder. Every time someone photographs something small in one of my rooms and ignores the big obvious sculpture, I keep that photo. The rotted floor gets more phone time than the commissioned bronze. I do not know what to do with this information yet. I suspect it means the poster should be a close-up of something broken and the room should be discovered. The gallery will fight me. We will compromise, and the compromise will be worse than either idea, as usual.

There is a box on the shelf at the studio, and it is not a working box. Inside are maybe twenty sheets I have decided are too good for anything. A 1940s Swedish school atlas with the maps printed in three faded inks. A letter from 1911 with a handwriting I will never find again. Some marbled endpaper from a book I took apart at work and could not throw away. They have been in there four years. Every so often I take one out, hold it up, decide the piece I am working on is not worthy of it, and put it back. The piece stays unfinished, the paper stays in the box. I know exactly what this is. The moment I cut into the atlas it stops being the atlas and becomes material, and material is something you can ruin. But a box of uncut paper has no failure in it. Anyway. Today I cut a strip off the corner of one of the maps, the plain ocean blue part, and glued it down. It was fine. The strip looked good, actually. The rest of the sheet is still the atlas. I am telling myself this is a reasonable compromise, but I suspect it is just a slower version of the same hoarding. Curious how many people here have a shelf of the good stuff they never touch.

sure look we've all got a horror story or two about walking into a gallery with your portfolio and knowing inside five minutes it was a dead loss. give us the worst one. I'll go first. maybe eight years ago, still pretty green, got a meeting with this gallery in a city I won't name. small place, grand, but the fella running it spent the whole time looking at his phone while I was pulling prints out. didn't ask me one question about the work. then he told me he could "make me" if I was willing to "compromise a little" which turned out to mean make stuff that looked like the fella three doors down who was selling. I packed up my stuff, thanked him, and he actually said "are you sure" like I was the one wasting his time. still makes my blood warm thinking about it. what about ye? ever walk into a meeting and wish you'd stayed in bed?

Took a piece in to get framed this week. Older guy, been doing it forty years, probably knows his stuff. He looks at the work for a long minute and goes "this is interesting, but why not just commit to canvas? you'd probably sell more." And I stood there going... what does that even mean. Commit. Like torn paper and acrylic washes and a few layers of charcoal is me chickening out. Like there's a correct material and everything else is me being indecisive. Didn't say much. Paid for the frame. It's a nice frame, he did good work. But I've been chewing on it for three days. There's this whole school of thought that if a thing isn't easily categorizable it's not finished. That mixed media is a phase before you find your real medium. Nobody says that to someone who only paints. They say "strong palette" or whatever. But the minute you're not pure, you're just... hedging. Ma'am I'm 45. I'm not hedging. I've been at this long enough to know exactly what I'm doing and it is not a compromise.

made a little lidded jar last month, hand-built, glaze came out this weird deep green with these red speckles I didn't plan at all. I was so proud of it I almost didn't list it. Kept it on the studio shelf for two weeks just walking past it. then some stranger on instagram messaged me about it and I panicked and said it wasn't for sale. told myself it was a "study piece" which was a lie, it was just mine. anyway she asked again like a week later, real nice about it, and I caved. packed it myself, bubble wrap and all, wrote a stupid little note in spanish that she'll probably google. it left yesterday. still feeling weird about it. but also it's the first time the money felt like a yes and not a compromise. like okay, this is real, people want the thing my hands made. my abuela would've cried. I just texted her a photo of the empty shelf spot instead. she sent back a string of heart emojis and "mi artista." that's it. just wanted to say it somewhere people get it.

I had a gallery once, small, reputable, right city, who said they liked the work but could I do smaller. The large canvases were too hard to place, they said. I thought about it for about a week, felt like I was selling out, and then I did it. Made a whole batch at 80x100cm, same approach, same treatment. And you know what, it was fine. Some of them I still like. The relationship didn't last anyway, for other reasons. So tell me: what's a compromise you made for a gallery that you don't regret? Or the one you do?

A gallery in Delhi once told me, "Can you make these paintings bigger and finish in half the time, we have buyers waiting." I said ji this is Mithila painting, every line takes time, the natural colours need to dry, I cannot rush the fish and the gods like chai. They did not understand. This happened with you also? Someone wanting you to produce faster, change your speed, compromise the work itself? How you handled it?

ok so I finally worked up the nerve to approach a gallery I've been following for ages, sent them my portfolio, got an actual reply, felt like I was floating. then they asked if I could "mute my palette a little" to fit their space better. my whole thing is color!! I paint the same window in my apartment over and over partly because I love watching how the light changes the color. they wanted me to basically be a different painter. I said no obviously but I'm still second-guessing myself like was that stupid, should I have compromised?? I feel like the right gallery will want what I actually make but also maybe I'm being precious about it idk anyone else had a gallery ask you to change your work? did you bend or hold your ground? I need to know I'm not alone here lol

I had a gallery once, small, nice enough people, and after looking at my portfolio they sat me down and said, very gently, "you know what sells here, na? Lighter colours. More cheerful subjects. Maybe try that." I understood what they meant. My work is all old Bangalore houses and morning shadows, and I know it's not exactly commercial. But I also couldn't shake the feeling that I'd be painting someone else's idea of what I should make. I didn't go back. Still wonder sometimes if I was too precious about it. Maybe a compromise isn't the end of the world. Anyone else been told to tweak their work for a gallery? Did you adjust, or hold your ground, and do you regret it either way?

A collector bought one of my prints at the studio open day, then emailed asking if I'd sign it "individually" because "an edition of 50 feels a bit mass produced." I had to explain that the edition IS the work. The number is not a compromise, it is the point. Fifty prints that are one image, one decision, repeated until they stop being copies and become something else. He wrote back, "Oh, so it's like a limited edition." Yes. That is exactly what it is. That was always the whole thing. I spent ten minutes afterward staring at my own screenprint like I had to defend it from its own buyer. Maybe I should start answering the question with "would you say that to a writer about their print run?" I don't know why the edition makes people so uncomfortable. As if the multiple is somehow less honest than a unique object. As if there is a true original hiding somewhere and the rest of us are just photocopying. Anyway. He bought it. I think he still believes he got a discount version of a real artwork. Let him.

Started it two years ago. Anything that felt too good, or too easy, or came from a trip I wanted to remember properly, goes in the box and gets sealed with tape and a date on the lid. The rule is I can't open it until the date. Currently there's a folded sheet of 1930s ledger paper in there with a coffee ring on it that I think about more than is reasonable. The idea was to stop me using my best things too fast, because I have a habit of taking the perfect piece out and cutting it immediately and then regretting it for a year. That part works. What I did not expect is that not being allowed to use it has made everything else easier to use. Regular paper stopped feeling like a compromise. Two more years on the current box. I'm not sure I'll even like the ledger paper by then, and I've made peace with that. Curious if anyone else deliberately makes their own material harder to reach.