Search

So I ran out of gesso mid-priming a canvas tonight and instead of just going to bed like a normal person I read about making your own with rabbit skin glue and whiting. Which obviously I'm not doing because the thought of rendering animal glue in my kitchen makes me a little queasy AND my 8 year old would absolutely try to eat it. But I did mix some acrylic medium with plaster of Paris to see what happens and now there's a weird little test square drying on cardboard that I'll report back on like it matters. It probably won't be anything, but honestly the kitchen-table science is half the fun of this hobby. I've ruined two good wooden spoons and my husband has stopped asking questions. Anyone else ever actually bothered with homemade grounds or do we all just buy the tub?

There's a bucket of seawater on my studio floor that's been there since Tuesday. I keep meaning to dump it and I keep not doing it, and now it's become this small fixed point I walk around, like a pet I've forgotten to feed. Probably has something living in it by now. I don't even remember what I was going to use it for. Some experiments I had in mind about development time in colder water, and then the day got away from me like they do. It's not the first time. There's a shelf of dried prints I've never mounted because I liked them better loose, and they're starting to curl. I think half of making work is just this. Holding things long enough to decide they matter, and letting the rest quietly go bad in a bucket.

I teach two botanical illustration classes a year, capped at twelve students, and I have never once advertised them. Word of mouth has carried that for over a decade and I assumed it always would. Then this past term three students told me they found the class through an Instagram post I made about pigment lightfastness testing. I had completely forgotten writing it. It was a photo of my test swatches in harsh sun, nothing more. That unsettled me more than it pleased me, honestly. I have spent years treating my social media as a ledger, a record of finished work, and the one post that actually brought people in was a half-finished experiment I nearly did not share. There is a lesson in there somewhere about showing process over polish and I keep resisting it because it feels like capitulating to trends I do not fully respect. I am still not sure what to do with that information. The finished pieces get the likes, but the mess gets the students.

I raised my originals by forty percent at the start of the year. Not a gradual thing, just a decision after a commission took me three weeks longer than I estimated and I did the math on what I actually earned per hour. I expected some pushback, at least a pause before purchases. Nothing. The last three pieces sold within the same window they always have. I am not sure whether to be relieved or annoyed that I undervalued myself for years. The work did not change. The buyers did not change. Only the number did. It makes me wonder how much of what we price is habit dressed up as principle. If you raised rates recently, did it change anything measurable? I would like to know whether my experience is the rule or the exception.

After years of being afraid of it, I raised my hourly rate from €45 to €65 at the beginning of this year. Not a dramatic jump. Reasonable for someone with my training and experience. I lost three regular clients in the first month. One of them told me I was "becoming expensive for a local painter." The other two just went quiet. And you know what? The commissions I've taken since then have been better. More interesting subjects, less revision demand, people who actually understand what they're asking for when they say "can you make the light softer." The clients who left were the ones who saw me as a service provider, not a painter. They wanted cheap, they got what they wanted somewhere else. I still feel a little guilty about the one who was a friend of a friend. But I did the math and I was earning less per hour than my daughter makes babysitting. That's not sustainable. That's not even dignified. If you raise your prices and nobody leaves, you probably didn't raise them enough. That's what my old teacher told me and I thought it was cynical. Now I think it's just true.

ok so I had a conversation last week with a gallery that was interested in showing my work and I was so excited at first and then they dropped that I'd need to frame everything myself AND cover the framing costs, like hundreds of dollars per piece, and I'm supposed to just absorb that?? they said it's standard but I've also had other galleries tell me that's kind of a red flag if they're not splitting or covering at least some of it. I haven't signed anything yet and now I'm second-guessing the whole thing. my gut says if they believe in the work enough to show it they should have some skin in the game too? or am I being naive here. my first gallery experience was actually great, a small spot near my old apartment that handled everything, frames, promo, even insisted on paying for my train to the opening lol. so maybe that spoiled me. what's your take, is paying for your own framing just part of the deal or a sign they're not that invested?

Been meaning to say this for a while. If you're welding galvanized steel in your studio without proper ventilation, stop. The zinc oxide fumes will give you something called metal fume fever. Feels like the worst flu of your life for about 24 hours. I got it once in my twenties working on a stair railing in a garage with the door half open. Thought I was dying. Called my father thinking it was a heart attack. He told me to drink milk and go to sleep. Actually worked, but I wouldn't recommend the experience. Wear a respirator. Not a dust mask. A proper respirator with the right cartridges. Or grind the galvanization off the weld area first. Takes an extra ten minutes and saves you a day of shaking on the bathroom floor. That's all. Just something nobody warned me about and I keep seeing people skip.

My first gallery, I did not go to them. They came to the village, a lady from Delhi who had seen our cooperative's exhibition photos. She sat on the floor with my mother and drank chai and asked about the fish motif. Three months later my paintings were in Delhi. I did not even know such a thing could happen. So I ask you all, from your own experience: did your first gallery come to you, or did you go to them? And whichever way it was, do you think that made a difference in how they treated you? For me I feel when they come to you, they value the work first. When you go to them, you are the one asking. Maybe I am wrong ji, tell me.

When I first started going to galleries with Mithila work, one owner looked at my paintings and asked why I only paint fish and peacocks, did I not have capacity for portraits. I was so taken aback I said nothing. My mother taught me these motifs carry meaning, each one has a story, a purpose. That man saw decoration only. Later I realised this is part of the work now, explaining what our art is. But it is tiring, always. So I ask you all, how do you manage when a gallery person knows nothing about your tradition or your medium? Do you educate them, or do you walk away? And has any gallery person surprised you by learning, truly learning? Share your experience ji.

I had a gallery in Delhi showing interest in my Mithila work. Very excited I was. Then they said, you will arrange framing yourself and also deliver to the venue at your own cost. For a group show, not even solo. I thought the gallery handles presentation side no? Otherwise what is the gallery doing. I told them sorry ji, this arrangement does not work for me. Maybe I lost an opportunity but it felt wrong. What is your experience with this? Which costs the gallery should cover and which the artist bears? I am still learning the business side after so many years of just painting. 🙏

I still remember the first gallery I walked into cold with my portfolio. It was a small natural-history gallery in a city I didn't know well, and I had rehearsed what I would say roughly forty times on the train. The owner was polite, asked to keep the portfolio overnight, and called the next day to say she didn't have room on the walls but she'd keep me in mind. She never did call back, but the experience taught me something about just showing up. What happened with yours? Did anyone say yes, or was it a quiet no that you learned from anyway?

I was reorganizing my supplies this week and counted eleven jars of water sitting around the studio in various states of use. Eleven. My husband walked in, looked at the collection, and asked if I was conducting an experiment. I told him I was, and had been for thirty years. People economize on paint, on paper, on brushes, and I understand all of it. But water is the variable I will not cut corners on. A tired wash full of lifted pigment is the difference between a leaf that looks alive and one that looks painted. When I teach, I make students change their water after every third wash and they always think I'm being precious. Then they see the two paintings side by side and they stop arguing. Distilled water for mixing, tap for cleaning, and never the two shall meet. I know it sounds like superstition. Maybe it is, at this point. But there's a particular blue-gray that only appears in water that's been sitting overnight, and I've learned to recognize it the way you'd recognize a bad mood in a friend. Some days I paint with it anyway, just to see what happens.

The studio has one wall where I can stand back far enough to really look at a thing, and I've had this small interior on it for three days, tilted maybe four degrees off level. Just enough that you'd feel it before you'd name it. Every time I walked past I noticed, then forgot, then noticed again. I wanted to see how long it took for the tilt to become the subject instead of the painting. It took about a day. Then I straightened it and the whole piece read differently, better, the way a room settles when someone opens a window. I don't know what that says about me or about the painting, but there's something in it about how we see. The eye forgives a lot and then very suddenly doesn't. Probably no point to this. I just thought other people here might do the same stupid experiment and tell me what happened.

my brother was not good at photography. like, genuinely bad. half the frames are his thumb. the other half are blurry pictures of things he was excited about, usually food or our cousin's dog. but I found the box of negatives last week, tucked behind some tax paperwork in a closet I'd been avoiding. spent the whole weekend making contact sheets in the darkroom at the community center, just to see what was on them. there's this one where he's trying to photograph the ocean and instead got like, a wall of beige blur. and I can't stop looking at it. it's so incompetent. it's so him. I've been staring at it like it's the most profound thing I've ever seen. I'm going to try to work with these somehow. torn paper collages from the contact sheets maybe, or cyanotypes of his worst frames. not sure yet. but I've been sitting with the fact that he put all this energy into documenting his life and most of it is just... bad. and that's the whole point somehow. anyway. if anyone has experience working with found negatives that are mostly garbage, I'd love to hear how you approached it without making it sentimental garbage yourself.

Myself Ramesh ji, from Madhubani. I want to ask something from all of you. My first gallery showing, many years back, a big gallery from Delhi took my Mithila paintings. I was so happy, I thought my mother's art is going everywhere now. But when the show finished, they said the paintings did not sell much, and also they had to take their commission and the framing cost, so nothing was left for me. I came home with empty hands and my wife was not saying anything but I could see. I was young and I did not know to ask for anything in writing. I learned after. Tell me, who else had such first experience? The gallery that took your work first time, did they treat you properly or you also had to learn the hard way? I want to know I am not alone in this.

I had a big print deadline, 40 editions for a group show in Milan, and I just stopped posting. No stories, no carousels, no polite little "in the studio" clips. Nothing for almost nine weeks. I was sure my engagement would be dead when I came back. Instead I gained followers. Not a lot, but more than I did in the three months before where I was posting twice a week. And the people who messaged me were actual humans I've met or worked with, not the usual ghost likes. I don't know what to make of this. Maybe the algorithm prefers scarcity. Or maybe when you're not performing, the only people who show up are the ones who actually care about the work. Which is a nicer thought but also harder to monetise, so I'm not sure it's useful. Anyone else had the experience of doing less and getting more?

I once walked into a "gallery" that was really a framing shop with a few things on the wall. They wanted 50% and I had to deliver everything framed myself. I said no and the woman acted like I was the unreasonable one. What's the most confusing gallery experience you've had, the one where you weren't sure if you were talking to a gallerist or something else entirely?

just got an email from a gallery i was excited about, they want me to ship insured, but when i asked what value they want me to declare, they said "whatever you think is appropriate." like that's not how insurance works?? i'm pretty sure i already know the answer here but i'd love to be wrong, is this normal? did i just dodge a bullet or am i being paranoid? for context my last gallery experience was the one that strung me along for six months and then ghosted, so my radar could be off.

Y'all ever walk into a gallery and they say yes so fast it gives you pause? I had one a few years back, lady barely looked at my photos, just said "love it, we'd be honored, let's get you on the calendar." And you know what? It was all talk. Never returned a single email after that. I've learned the hard way that a quick yes don't always mean a good yes. Sometimes the ones that take their time, ask real questions, want to see the work in person, those are the ones that follow through. What's your experience? Did a fast yes ever work out for you, or did it fizzle like mine?

A friend from years ago asked me to paint her daughter's portrait for her 18th. I said yes at €600, already half what I'd charge a stranger for a 50x60cm oil on linen. She's a friend, fine. Then the emails started. "Could you do it from these five photos instead?" "Actually she's wearing a different dress now, can you change the colour?" "Her hair is shorter than that photo shows." "My mother thinks the background should be lighter." I repainted the face from new reference, adjusted the dress twice, scraped and repainted the background. All told I probably spent close to 25 hours on a painting that should have taken maybe 12. At my usual hourly rate for commissioned work that comes out to about €24 an hour. My assistant, who stretches canvases, makes €16. So I earned roughly the same as the person who stretches my canvases, for a job that required twenty years of training. The friend was happy. The daughter cried when she saw it. Beautiful moment. I don't regret it exactly. But I sat down afterwards and did the math and realised I'd basically given her a €1,200 painting plus a free workshop in how to manage an artist. Never again without a contract that says: one reference, one revision, anything beyond that is a new fee. Curious if anyone else has a number attached to the "learning experience" of a commission that ran away from you.