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Ok so I've been working on this one 9x12 of the window at 6pm, the gold hour one, and I've been through maybe eleven sheets of Arches trying to get the shadow on the sill right. Eleven. That's like $70 of paper just to learn that I keep lifting the paper when I want to lift the pigment, which, cool, great, love that for me. Anyway the electric company sent the bill and it's up $40 and my partner was like "you've had the lamp on till 2am every night for a month" and I got defensive for a second and then remembered I also run a hair dryer over every wash because I'm impatient and can't wait for it to dry on its own like a normal person. So I'm out here basically paying to speed up my own mistakes. On my own dime. As a person with no other dime. The thing is the window doesn't even look that different from the one I did in March and I can't tell if that's progress or if I'm just circling. I know the light changed because it's October now. I don't know if I did. Not looking for a fix, mostly just want someone to tell me the hair dryer thing is normal because I'm starting to feel insane about it

I know titanium white is more practical. Covers better, doesn't yellow, the modern choice. But every time I reach for it my hand goes to the zinc instead. I've been doing it for twenty-five years. There's something about the way zinc sits, cooler, a little transparent, it lets the light come through from underneath instead of sealing everything off. Titanium feels dead to me. Like painting with wall paint. Of course it cracks if you use too much in impasto. My teacher told me this in 1998. I still don't care. What's the white you hate or love? Everybody has one.

I finished a specimen sheet this afternoon that has been in the drawer, unfinished, since 2013. A single Rosa gallica, and the delay was never the rose. It was the red. Alizarin crimson was the standard for that particular depth of petal and every serious painter knows what it does over time: it fades, browns, quietly betrays you in a frame twenty years on. I could not bring myself to send a sheet out into the world carrying a pigment I knew would fail. So I kept putting it off, then putting it off became a habit, and the habit became twelve years. The answer, when I finally sat down with it, was unglamorous. Permanent alizarin crimson, layered thinly over a quinacridone base, tested on scrap for a fortnight before a single mark went on the good paper. Two weeks of testing to solve what twelve years of avoidance had been circling. I am not proud of the arithmetic. It is dry, it is signed, and it is going to the framer on Monday. Small thing. It has been sitting on my conscience longer than most of my actual mistakes have.

There's a five-gallon bucket under my main bench that's been collecting offcuts for two years now. Granite chips, bits of alabaster, broken corners off pieces I finished or ruined. I tell myself I'll use them for something someday. Mosaic maybe. Or just crush them for texture in a base. I've never done it. I just keep dropping scraps in there and looking at it sometimes. Some habits are just habits. Not everything needs a reason. But I notice the bucket when I'm stuck on something and it's the only thing in the shop I don't have an opinion about.

A woman came to the studio on Saturday, spent maybe twenty minutes in front of the biggest cyanotype I have, the 70x100 with the net dragged across it, and then said she wanted it for her hallway. I wrapped it in the paper I always use and she carried it out herself. Then I sat in the car for a while before I could drive. Not sadness exactly. That piece was on the wall behind me for eleven months, through two winters, and I had got used to turning round and finding it there. Now there is a pale rectangle where it hung, and the wall looks undressed. I have sold work before. This one was different, I think because I had almost stopped believing it was any good. It came out of a morning when nothing worked, the solution was old, the sun went in, and I nearly rinsed the paper and started again. I did not. I hung it up to dry out of habit and it was the best thing I made all year. Anyway. The car park behind the studio smells of diesel and there was a man loading tiles into a van beside me, and I just sat there with the empty tube on the passenger seat.

Been using the same 1/4 inch masonry bit since 1994. It's got maybe an eighth of an inch left on it and the carbide's chipped in two places. I've got a drawer full of new ones that cut cleaner. But that old bit has gone through three shop walls and half a dozen concrete pours, and I know exactly how it walks before it bites. New ones chatter. That one just goes. My daughter keeps telling me to retire it. Says it's sentimental, like the thing has feelings. It doesn't. It's just measured. When you've pulled a tool a thousand times you don't think about it, you just know the weight of it in your hand. Same reason I don't change how I set a weld after thirty years. Not habit. Just settled. Most people think the old guys are stubborn. We're not. We just already found the thing that works and we're not going to fight it.

I had about 40 minutes after bedtime to get the sky in on this field piece and I mixed what I always mix, ultramarine and a touch of white, that cold early-spring blue. She wandered out for water, looked over my shoulder, and said it looked like the sky in a cartoon. Then she went to bed. So that was helpful. The annoying part is she's not wrong. I've been using the same blue mix for years because it works and I don't have to think about it, and now I can't unsee it. It's flat. It reads like a color I chose instead of a color that was there. So now I'm going down the rabbit hole of warm blues and I'm realizing how much of my palette is just habit. Same three mixes over and over. I've got a tube of cerulean I bought in like 2019 that I've barely touched because it felt "too pretty." Not sure what I'll land on but the sky is going to be worse before it gets better.

I took the "oil on linen, 30x40" caption out of my posts for a month. Not the hashtags, not the process videos, just that little line at the end. I've always put it there out of habit, like a signature. Collectors want to know what they're buying, I told myself. The change was not dramatic but it was real. People started commenting about the light in the room, the mood of the thing, what the woman in the painting was thinking. Before it was mostly "beautiful work" and other painters asking about my medium. I think the technical note was giving people permission to look at it like a spec sheet instead of letting them just feel it. Once the frame of reference was gone they had to meet the painting on its own terms. I put the information back when the piece sells, obviously. But the post itself, the first encounter, I leave it bare now. The gallery can do the talking about dimensions and materials. My job on social media is to make someone stop scrolling because something in the image got under their skin, and I was undercutting that with my own footnotes. Maybe that's just me. Or maybe we all over-explain ourselves online because we're afraid of being misunderstood, and the fear itself is what keeps people at arm's length.

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.

For years I kept prices off my site. Gallery habit, I suppose: you don't discuss money in public, the buyer asks, you reply discreetly, c'est ça. In March I finally put a range on the site, honestly, with a note that the small studies start lower and the large things are not cheap. What I expected: fewer inquiries. What happened: the opposite, and better ones. Someone wrote last week that she had assumed everything was out of her reach, saw the range, and bought a 24 by 30 study. I sold three of the small ones in two months. The questions I get now start at "is the light in this one from the window or from the lamp" instead of "how much." The thing I got wrong was thinking discretion protects the work. It mostly protects the awkwardness of the person asking. People want a number. Give it and you both stop circling. The part I still dislike: a few painters in my circle think it is vulgar. Maybe. But I spent a decade painting little and talking much, and I prefer this.

I have a flat hog brush, maybe fifteen years old now. The ferrule is loose, the handle has a crack running through it where I must have left it in solvent too long once, and the bristles are worn down to almost half their original length. It's useless for any kind of clean stroke. But I keep it because it does something no new brush can do, it leaves a mark that's broken, a little ragged, like the paint itself is hesitating. I've tried to buy the same model new. It doesn't work the same way. A new brush is too polite. This happens with tools, but also with the way you work. You develop habits that are actually just wear patterns, and then you mistake them for technique. I don't know if that's a problem or just how it goes.

Small one. I've been rinsing the cyanotypes in tap water for two years, out of habit and a bit of fear, and this week I finally just carried a tray down to the rocks at Foz and let the Atlantic finish them. I expected to lose the lot. Instead the blues came out softer, with a grain in the paper I've been trying to fake with brushes. One of them, a photogram of a piece of net I picked up in Matosinhos, has a shadow in the corner from where a wave came over the tray edge. I would have thrown that away before. My father would have laughed at me standing in the water with paper. Not unkindly. Anyway, I'm not going back to tap water for the final wash.

Okay so the tape. Not a fresh roll, the same four strips I've been reusing since like March, stuck to the edge of my glass palette so they don't lose their tack. My partner watched me peel one off this morning, press it back down, and just said "we have a whole drawer of that." We do. I know we do. The thing is these four strips have the exact right amount of stick left. New tape rips the paper when I lift it, old tape gives up halfway through a big wet wash and the whole sheet buckles and I have to sit there watching it curl like it's personally disappointed in me. So I keep them. They've got paint on them now, a reddish smear from that cadmium I use way too much of, and one corner is folded over from the day I was rushing to get the light on the window before it moved. I don't think this is a cute habit, I think it's probably a small problem and I'm telling on myself. But every time I go to grab a fresh strip I do the little satisfaction check first, tap the paper, and the used ones always win. Anyone else hoarding a supply that's technically garbage because the replacement behaves wrong? I need to know I'm not the only one with a tape problem, or honestly, I need someone to tell me to just use the new roll.

Did a forged and welded stair rail last spring. Twelve feet, fourteen balusters, hand-scrolled top and bottom. Quoted $9,500 installed. Client never blinked, which should have told me something. Steel went up between the quote and the buy. Not a little. The tube alone came in at $2,100 when I'd figured $1,300. I have a habit of not putting an escalation clause in the small jobs because I think it makes me look like a shyster. So I ate $800 out of my own pocket and told nobody. What actually chewed the job was the finish. They wanted a waxed black, and the wax has to go on warm in a ventilated space, so that's a full extra day with the shop doors open in March, torches running. I don't bill days like that. I bill the piece. That's the mistake. The piece is the easy part. The day after is what's expensive. The honest number was closer to $11,000. I'd have been paid it. They had the money and they liked the work. I'm 61 and I've been doing this thirty-plus years and I still undercharge on anything with a finish schedule, because in my head the finish is just "the last thing." It isn't. It's half the labor and it's the half that fails if you rush it. The rail is still dead straight two winters on, so I got that part right.

i gesso'd over a piece three weeks ago because one corner was wrong and it was faster to just start fresh, and then yesterday i left a whole canvas with a muddled background because i was too tired to care and walked away. that one's actually going somewhere. there's no logic to it, the one i let slide is worse than the ones i killed. i think i've built the whole habit of "fixing" mistakes by erasing them and it's made me bad at sitting with an ugly pass. everything has to be clean by the end of the day or i feel like i failed. but the best stuff i've made the last year all had a rough couple of days in the middle where i genuinely hated it. anyway the muddled one is dry now and the corner is fine. i just had to not look at it for 48 hours. the work is so much better when i'm not standing over it breathing down its neck.

Someone in a crit last week said my collage work has "a consistent gesture" which I think was a polite way of saying every torn edge I make curls the same way. I checked three old pieces this morning. Yeah. Every single one, the paper rolls toward the same side. I tear with my right hand, pull down and left, every time, for years. It's like finding out you have a signature you never signed. Not sure if this is a thing to fix or just lean into. It's not a bad look honestly, the curl catches light. But now that I've seen it I can't stop seeing it, and knowing it's muscle memory kind of grosses me out. Anyone else ever find a habit this dumb baked into years of work?

I kept a careful record this week because I suspected something was off. Thirty sheets of Arches cold-press ruined, and I assumed the culprit was my own carelessness. Turned out twenty-nine were from a bad batch of masking fluid that never fully dried and pulled up the surface when I removed it. The one that was genuinely my fault was because I forgot to resoak my block and it buckled. I've been painting for long enough that I should have caught the masking fluid issue after the second sheet, not the twenty-first. That is the part that sits poorly with me. I checked the bottle, the shelf life, the temperature. All fine. It simply failed silently, and I trusted it. I've started wetting a test scrap before every session now. It costs me two minutes and saves me a great deal of self-recrimination. If you use masking fluid, I would recommend the habit. The supplier refunded the batch, but they do not refund the hours.

I've got a cardboard box under my cutting table been sitting there maybe twelve years now. Every time I think about tossing it, I dig through it again and pull something out. Little triangles from my grandbaby's Easter dress from 2011. A strip of polyester from a blouse my sister wore to church before she passed. Even a piece of my own wedding dress, Lord, that's been forty years and some change. My grandmother called it "saving for the hard times", not money, but cloth. Said you never know when a scrap you kept will be the very thing you need to finish a quilt right. I thought she was just being old and sentimental. But here I am, same habit, same box. Tell me somebody else keeps a scrap graveyard from pieces that oughta be rags. Or am I just a hoarder with a sewing machine? 😂🙏

I carved a granite bench a few years back for a public garden. Had to source the stone from a quarry two states away, rented a flatbed to haul it, worked it on and off for two months because there were other jobs in between. Sold it for $1,200. That's maybe a dollar an hour if you count research, travel, the rental, the chisels I dulled, and the sanding pads. I knew it at the time and I still said yes. I told myself it was a "public installation" and that was worth something. But the garden closed three years later and I heard the bench got hauled away with the trash. I don't know what the right number was. Double maybe. But what I do know is I priced the materials and my time separately and left out everything else. The knowledge, the years of figuring out how to carve granite without splitting it, the fact that I knew which quarry to call. That all went for free. I still do it. Not as bad, but I still leave money on the table somewhere. Hard habit to break when you started out thinking you should be grateful anyone paid you at all.

I priced a cyanotype at 240 euros for a small show here in Porto. Framed, 30x40, one of the big seaweed pieces from last August. Then I did the math properly, which I almost never do. Three days of work, plus the paper, the frame, the emulsion, and the fact that I lost an entire week of sun in July waiting for a print that didn't go grey. Divided out, that's less than I pay my neighbour to watch the cat. The gallery took 40 percent. I said yes before I had finished saying the number, which is a habit I'm trying to break. I think what bothers me is not the money. It's that I priced it like a picture of something, and it isn't. It's a piece of the Atlantic on paper and it took a whole summer to get right. So. 240. I'm putting that here so I have to look at it. What would you have asked? I honestly don't know where my own ceiling is anymore.