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Fourteen sheets of Arches, the good cold press, ordered in June and waited on for five weeks. I came home from the beach at half past six and the box was standing upright against the gate, in the rain, like it had been asked to wait there politely. The cardboard was so soft it opened with two fingers. The paper inside is not ruined exactly. That is the maddening part. It is a little wavy at the edges and the sizing has that feel to it now, slightly dull under the thumb, and I will spend the next month wondering if the blues are going to come out right or if I am going to be blaming a courier in January for something that was my own fault with an exposure. I did not shout at anyone. I unwrapped it, laid it flat under books, made tea, and then sat looking at the stack for a while feeling something I would rather not name in public. My partner said well, at least it is only paper. He is a good man and he meant it kindly and I have not spoken to him since. Anyway. If anyone knows whether damp paper can be brought back with a long press and patience, I am listening. If not, I am going to keep pressing it and pretending.

I ordered some new tubes of Williamsburg oil paint, the good stuff, and the delivery driver just left them on my doorstep. In the sun. For hours. The heat here in Lyon has been brutal, and I can only imagine what that cadmium red has gone through. It's infuriating. Do they not understand that paint is sensitive material? C'est pas possible.

The courier handed it to me and it was warm. Who knows why. The box had a dent the shape of a person sitting on it, and I thought fine, the ream inside is wrapped. It was not wrapped. Cotton paper absorbs everything it touches and apparently it had been touching a box that spent two days in a warehouse that smells like diesel and damp cardboard. So the top thirty sheets now smell like a truck. Not visibly ruined, just smelling, which is worse, because you can't photograph the problem and you can't prove anything. I have a show in March. I need 40 good prints and I've been working toward them since October. So now I'm doing the thing where I hold each sheet up to the window like a doctor looking at an x-ray, deciding which ones I'm going to pretend are fine. The funny part is I make work about the multiple, about the copy, about how a print is never really the original. So the universe has a sense of humor about me being precious with paper. But there's a difference between the idea of the reproducible and the smell of my studio right now, which is a rented Mazda. I've started leaving them out with a bowl of bicarbonate next to them like it's a sick animal. Tell me if you know a better trick, or tell me I'm being dramatic. Both fine.

Myself Ramesh, Mithila painter from Madhubani. All my life I sold through the cooperative or when someone came to the house. Tourists sometimes, or people from the city who heard about the village where the painting women are. My son, he is in Patna for his job, he took photos of maybe eight of my pieces, a fish with the lotus, a Durga, two peacocks, some others. He put them on WhatsApp status and also in some groups he is in. I did not think much of it. Now in the last month I have sent six paintings by courier. To Delhi. To Bangalore. To one address in Dubai even, a man whose mother is from Darbhanga originally and he wanted something for his wall. These people never touched the paper, never saw the pigment. They saw a phone photo and they trusted it. This is strange to me. In my market, the buyer wants to see the line work up close, wants to know the colour is natural, wants to hold it. But my son says this is how it works now. I am grateful, truly, but also I am thinking, what if the photo does not show the real thing? I use geru and rice paste and lamp black, the photo cannot show that. But the buyers are happy when the parcel arrives. I do not understand this new way but I cannot argue with the orders. Anyone else selling traditional craft online and feeling this same confusion?🙂

Something I want to share with you all. For many years I am sending my paintings to the cooperative in Patna, and from there sometimes they go to Delhi, once to Kolkata. That much only. My son keeps saying Baba, put on internet, people are buying from all countries. I was doubtful, honestly, because the work is small and made on paper by hand, not any big thing to see. But last month a lady from Hamburg wrote to me. She had seen one of my paintings of the marriage of Gauri and Shiva, kachni style, only line work, no colour filling, three weeks of work with a brush of one or two hair. She wrote that she wanted one for her mother, and she said please do only in that old line style, not with the bright filling which is now common. I sat quiet for some time after reading that. Because this is what my mother used to do. The colour work sells faster, buyers like it, and I also have to make it, no shame in that. But the pure kachni line, that is the mother's hand, so to say. Nobody was asking for it since long. I had nearly stopped doing it except for puja time. So I did one. Small, on handmade paper, line only, fish at the border, and I sent it after eleven days. She wrote back only two lines, that her mother had put it on the wall next to the door. I do not know if this is a big win. The money was not much, and I spent more on the courier than I wanted. But somebody in another country, who never met my mother, asked for her style by name. That felt like something. I am thinking now to keep one corner of the work always for the old line style, even if no buyer comes for months.

My son has put my work on a website and one order came from a lady in Delhi, so I rolled the paper in a tube and sent it by courier. She sent a photograph back. The crack is running straight through the tail of the fish. Now, in our work the fish is not decoration. Fish means fertility, means plenty, it comes in the wedding paintings with the lotus and the bamboo. To send a fish with a broken tail, what will she think of us. I know it is only the paper which is cracked, not the painting itself, but still it sat badly with me whole night. I offered to make it again, same motifs, same colours from the soot and the flowers. She is saying no, she wants it as it is, she is saying the crack is also part of the story now. I am not understanding this thinking. In our tradition we do not show the work half finished or damaged, we keep it clean for the person who is keeping it in the house. But she is a good lady and she has paid already, so I am not arguing. Maybe she is right that the paper has its own life. The old women here would not agree with her, that much I can tell you. Has anyone else sent work far by post and it came with some injury? What did you do, made it fresh or let it go as it is?

Finished a portrait last week, charcoal on paper, roughly 40 hours across two weeks because I kept hating it and redoing the eyes. Charged €500. After paper, charcoal, fixative, the framing, and the courier there was about €270 left. That's €6.70 an hour. A barista makes more than that here and they don't go to bed smelling like fixative. And here's the thing that's really chewing on me. The woman who commissioned it loved it. Cried when she saw it, said it was the first thing that ever actually captured her mother. She would've paid double. I know she would've because when I was scared to say a number I lowballed out of pure nerves and she didn't even blink. I keep telling myself I'm still building my name and the exposure counts. But €6.70 an hour for work that genuinely wrecked me to make isn't building anything except resentment. I need to charge what it actually costs me to live and breathe into a piece or I'm going to burn out before anyone's ever heard of me. How do you get over the fear of naming a number out loud and just letting it hang there while they decide if you're worth it? Because I physically feel sick every single time.

I am telling this here because who else will understand. Last month my son came from Patna and said, Bauji, let me photograph your paintings properly, and he put four of them on some site. I did not understand fully what he was doing, I was only worrying that the light in the courtyard was too strong and the black lines will look faded. He said no no it is fine. Two days back a message came. A lady in America, in some place called Ohio, she has bought the peacock with the fish in the border. She wrote that she has hung it near her dining table. I read that line maybe ten times. Four thousand rupees, that is what she paid. Not a big amount for many people. But I have been painting since I was maybe nine years old, on the mud wall of our house first, and this is the first time a person I have never met, in a country I will never see, has sent money for my hand's work. My wife said see, the internet is not only for wasting time. I did not have answer for her. The courier packing was the hard part. I did not sleep properly that night, thinking of the paper getting folded in some bag. I wrapped it in three layers of plastic and then cloth and then the cardboard tube, and I wrote on the outside PLEASE DO NOT FOLD in English letters, which my son's daughter helped me write properly. Anyway. Today I am starting one more peacock. Same border, but I am changing the colour of the sky behind it. Let us see.