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Kronan flea market on Saturday, a shoebox of paper for 40 kronor. Someone's whole household accounts, 1952 to 1961. Milk, thread, shoe repair, one for a lampshade. Handwriting gets worse every year, which I find comforting. I bought it for the paper. Good weight, that tobacco-yellow, foxed at the edges. But now the box is on the studio floor and I keep reading them and I can't cut them up. A receipt for 2.50 for shoe repair is not interesting. That's the problem. It's completely not interesting and I've read it four times. Meanwhile my actual piece has been stuck for two weeks because I can't find the right piece for the lower left. Sorted through everything. Twice. I think the receipts stay. The piece can wait.

Three weekends ago I paid 60 for a table at a flea market out past the highway. Two folding chairs, no tent, sun in my eyes until noon. Sold 210. Two small pieces and a stack of prints. If I count the hours and the framing I lost money. Badly. But here's the thing nobody says in the pricing threads. I got four conversations that mattered more than the sales. A woman stood in front of one piece for probably ten minutes and then told me about her mother's house, which is the whole reason I make anything. Another guy took my card and emailed me Tuesday, wants to see the bigger work. That's not a lead from a reel, that's a person who touched the actual surface. Online I get 40 likes and nothing. In person I get one person who really looks. The part that stings is that it's not scalable. I can't do this every weekend, my back won't take it and it eats the studio time. I keep looking for a version of this that lives on a screen and I can't find one. Everything that actually reaches somebody seems to cost me a Saturday and a sunburn. Anyway I'm doing it again next month. If you've done the table thing, what actually sells for you, prints or the real stuff. I haven't figured out the ratio and I'm pricing blind.

Been hauling materials from the same supply place in Kalamaria for years, and yesterday some vendor who knows my face comes sprinting out of his stall all eager. Says he'll help me carry the palette of smalti I just paid for. Sir, that is 40 kilos of glass and you are wearing sandals. I told him no thanks, I've got it, I've done this a thousand times. He does not stop. He grabs one corner anyway. Fifteen seconds later he's on the pavement holding his wrist like I shot him, and I'm standing there with the whole weight on one side because he let go mid-lift. My back is going to remind me of his good intentions for a week. The thing is he meant well. That's the part that gets me. Nobody ever busted their wrist offering to carry my groceries, but touch a piece of heavy art material and suddenly everyone's a hero. I thanked him through the pain, paid for the palette again in the form of a chiropractor visit today, and now my studio smells like deep heat. I know it's not the worst thing that happened in the world today. But my knees are 45 years old and they did not need this.

Sold a small piece at the flea market on saturday. Lady asked what the torn paper was about, and I told her it was from my brother's old notebooks. She bought it before I even finished the sentence. No reel, no hashtag, no "link in bio." Just me standing there with cold coffee and my actual story. Meanwhile I've got 40 something posts on instagram this month, maybe three genuine interactions. Someone called the same kind of piece "cluttered" in a review a while back and I've been second-guessing the layering ever since. The lady at the market didn't care about composition rules. She wanted to know whose stuff it was. I keep thinking the market is the hobby and the feed is the real thing. It's backwards. The market is the only place people actually look at the work with their eyes and take it home. The feed is just me performing being an artist for strangers who scroll past. Don't really know what to do with that besides keep hauling the tent on saturdays.

Sold a 16×20 mixed media piece this week for $220. Took me about 11 hours all in. So that's $20/hr before materials, which is par for the course I guess. But here's the part that actually stings: $84 of it went to materials. Not the fancy stuff either. A tube of good titanium white is $18 now. A roll of decent paper. Found photo from a flea market. So I cleared maybe $130 and the buyer will hang it above their couch and someday their grandkid will donate it to a thrift store. And I'll still do it again next week because this is the only thing that doesn't feel like dying by inches. I keep telling myself the math gets better once the work gets known. But I've been telling myself that for four years.

I got a call last week from a woman I didn't know. Said she found my name on a label sewed into an old quilt she bought at a church flea market over in Tuscaloosa. Asked if I wanted it back. I knew exactly which one before she even described it. That blue and yellow improv log cabin I made in '93, right after my youngest left for school. I was so lonesome that year I just sewed and sewed. Sold it for $40 at a craft fair at the county annex, first quilt I ever sold to a stranger. I remember watching the woman walk off with it folded over her arm and thinking I might've made a mistake letting it go. Anyway she mailed it to me and I opened the box and there it was. Still sturdy. Still a little crooked in places. I sat and held it in my lap a good long while before I could do anything else. I don't know what I'm gonna do with it now. Might keep it. Might hang it where I can see it. That quilt been out in the world longer than my own children lived in this house. Lord.

I have this old tobacco tin on the shelf full of buttons I never use. Found it at a flea market years ago, tins were always good for something. Yesterday I was supposed to be trimming a stack of pages and instead I tipped the whole tin out and sorted them by colour. Two hours gone. Did not touch a single page. The thing is, I don't sew. I have never sewed a button onto anything in my life. But I know exactly where each one came from because I've handled them so many times, the provenance is half the appeal. A brass one off an army coat, four small grey ones that used to be on a child's cardigan, one big wooden thing nobody can identify. I put them back in unsorted. I do this when a piece isn't working. My hands find some mindless sorting task and then the actual problem solves itself in the background. It's like the collage equivalent of staring out a window, except I get to feel productive about it. The pages are still untrimmed. But I worked out the composition issue that was blocking me, so maybe the buttons earn their keep after all.

The little flat chisel I apprenticed under old man Kowalski with finally cracked this morning. Thirty-eight years I've had that thing. Ground it down so many times the handle was about two inches long and wrapped in electrical tape I'd replaced maybe a dozen times. First tool I ever bought with my own money. Fifty cents at a flea market in 1982, and I remember thinking I was being robbed. I stood there for a while not knowing what to do with myself. That sounds soft. But it was the only thing in the studio I didn't have to think about. Pick it up, it does what you need. No decisions. I know it's just a tool. I've got a drawer full of better ones. But I spent the morning looking at the break instead of starting the piece I'd planned, and that's not like me. Boxed up the two pieces. Going to bury it out back with the other ones I've worn past saving. Give it a little ceremony nobody's going to see. Then I'll pull a new one off the shelf and get on with it. Don't know why I'm writing this on here. Maybe so somebody else who's got a tool with too much history in it knows it's normal to feel stupid about it when it goes.

Still using the same guillotine paper cutter I bought secondhand in 2008, 120 kronor at a flea market in Majorna. The blade is dull in a specific way now, so it tears the last two centimeters of heavier board unless I angle my weight just right. I've had it sharpened twice. Both times it came back worse. There's a rhythm to it I don't want to lose. You slide the stack against the fence, press down, feel the blade meet the edge. When I use a fresh cutter at the studio, everything comes out too clean. I don't trust it. Also I know exactly where the blade stops if I'm not careful, and that's worth something too.

Found a painting of someone's dachshund from 1983 yesterday. Terrible painting. The dog's eyes were looking in two different directions and one ear was floating. Frame was trashed, matting was that pilled velvet stuff. Bought it anyway. Took the painting out, put it in a drawer. I don't know why I do this. I have a stack of bad pet portraits now and no use for them. But throwing someone's dog away felt wrong. Same thing happens with photographs. Estate sales, flea markets. I've got a shoebox full of people I don't know. Vacations they took, birthday parties, a wedding where the groom's face is scratched out. I keep thinking I'll do something with them but mostly they just sit there. Maybe it's just cheaper than therapy. Or a different kind of hoarding.

I had this whole thing planned out for today, I was gonna paint this corner of my studio where the afternoon light hits this dumb little ceramic donkey my mom got me at a flea market, and I mixed this perfect warm gray for the shadow side, really felt good about it, and then I walked away to let it settle for literally two minutes and came back and it was already cracking. Gouache is such a brat sometimes. Like alright fine I guess we're starting over?? And I KNOW it's because I didn't work the pigment back enough before I put it down, I was too excited, I rushed it. I do this every time I'm really into a piece. My partner says I need to slow down but like, the thing is when I'm excited about something I just wanna GET IT DOWN you know?? And then the materials are like nope sorry try again. Anyway I'm re-mixing and I'm gonna be real patient about it this time lol. The light's still good for another hour or so. We'll see if I learned my lesson.

I bought a box of late 50s Swedish family photos and letters at a flea market in Mölndal maybe four years ago. Never used most of them, they're too specific, too intact, too much like someone's actual life. But I keep the box under my cutting table anyway. Now it's started to smell like damp cellar and old paper, the good kind. Today I finally opened it and sorted through. Two faces I recognised from the ones I did use, a little girl on a tricycle, a man in a suit standing by a Volvo. The rest are strangers. I don't know why I'm keeping them. Maybe I'm waiting for them to become anonymous enough to cut into. Anyway the box is open now and my whole studio smells like 1959. Not unpleasant but distracting. Might just put it all back and close the lid for another year.

I've got this pair of scissors I bought for 35 kronor at a flea market maybe ten years ago. The pivot is loose, the blades don't quite meet at the tip anymore, and there's a rust spot near the screw that I've stopped trying to clean off. They look like they should be useless. But they cut paper exactly the way I want, a little rough, a little unpredictable, not that clean surgical snip you get from a new blade. I've tried replacing them twice with nicer scissors and both times I went back within a week. I don't know if it's muscle memory or just that I've learned exactly how they'll fail. But they're the only tool I own that I'd actually be unsettled to lose.

Four months. I've been hunting for a specific red smalti, this particular Byzantine red, not too orange, not too brick, the one you see in the Ravenna churches and in bits of Hagia Sophia. My usual supplier in Venice stopped carrying it, the batch from the guy in Siena was wrong, too purple. I tried cutting my own from glass rods and it looked like cherry candy. Wrong wrong wrong. Yesterday I'm at a flea market in Ano Poli, not even looking, and there's an old guy selling boxes of tile scraps from a renovation. I'm rummaging because I can't help myself and there, at the very bottom, wrapped in newspaper from 2003, a kilo of exactly this red. Hand-cut, uneven, matt finish, the real thing. He charged me five euros. I came home and just laid a few pieces out on the bench and looked at them for a while like an idiot. People don't get it. But you probably do. That specific thing you need finding you when you stop hunting. Best feeling. 🙂

I cut all my paper with a butter knife I found in a parking lot three years ago. Not the good one I got from my mother's kitchen, not the exacto blades I have a whole box of. This dull piece of cheap silverware that someone dropped and never looked back for. It tears the edges in these uneven ways I can't reproduce on purpose. I've tried. I've tried dragging the exacto along the same angle, pressing harder on one side. Nope. Only the parking lot knife does it right. Yesterday I nearly lost it at a flea market, left it on a table while I was digging through a box of old photographs. Ran back panicking like it was a dog. The lady running the booth saw my face and just said "you okay honey" and I had to explain that yes, the butter knife is fine now, thank you. I don't know what that says about me but it's probably not good.