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commission story, and then im quietly retiring from commissions forever. client wanted a custom portrait. haggled me down from 200 to 80 "because it's just one person, not a full scene." fine. my fault for saying yes. then ghosted for two weeks. then came back asking for four rounds of revisions, including, and i quote, "can you make her look happier but also more mysterious." i have earned roughly eight pounds an hour to be told my work isnt mysterious enough. im done. originals only from here on

Had someone message me about a commission back in February. Wanted a small piece, maybe 40x40cm, in mostly smalti. We went back and forth for two weeks, she wanted a discount, wanted free shipping, wanted me to throw in a smaller piece "as a gesture." I held my ground, said the price is the price, and eventually she went quiet. I figured she'd moved on. Three weeks later the full amount shows up in my bank account with a one-line email: "Same dimensions as discussed, please proceed." No apology, no explanation. Just the money. I made the piece, shipped it, never heard from her again. Not even a photo of it on a wall. I still don't know what to make of that interaction. Part of me thinks she tested me and I passed. Part of me thinks she just got tired of negotiating and decided to pay. Either way, the lesson I keep landing on is: if you're confident the work is worth what you're asking, the haggling either resolves itself or it doesn't, and either outcome is fine. You don't have to win every conversation. Just don't be the one who folds first.

Today one gentleman came to our cooperative stall. He liked one painting, the one with the fish and the lotus, took maybe twenty minutes to decide. Then he said, "This is too much. For folk art? You people enjoy making it. Reduce by half." I reduced by ten percent only, because the colours I used, the handmade paper, the many hours. He was not satisfied but he paid. Then he asked, will I teach his daughter also. I said yes, I teach girls in my village, it is my work and my joy. He said, "Good. Then teach her also, no charge, since you enjoy it so much." As if my enjoyment is the payment. As if the art feeds us on appreciation alone. I said kindly, ji, the enjoyment I have is true, but the rice also must come from somewhere. He looked at me like I had said something rude. I am fifty-six years old and still explaining that my hands are labour and my traditions are worth something. Some days I am tired of teaching this lesson to grown men.

Somebody from the opening last Friday called the gallery today. Wanted one of the new ones, the big grey-blue with the scrape. Fine. Then ten minutes of gentle negotiation, which I mostly don't do, but the gallery handles that and I wasn't in the room. Fine. Then the kicker: could they have ten percent off the framing because they're "investing in the piece already." I put the goddamn frame on myself. Cut the mitres, joined it, sanded it twice because the first pass looked wrong in this light. That frame is not an add-on, it is part of the work. You do not negotiate against the work. I said no through the gallery, which is the polite version. What I wanted to say is you're not buying a car, you're taking something I made with my hands into your house. The negotiation was already a bad sign. The framing was the tell. Sold it anyway. Of course I did. That's the part I don't like about myself.

Somebody bought the big charcoal from the March series. The one of my mother's hands. She paid full asking, no haggling, which honestly made it worse because it meant she actually wanted it. I sat in the car after and cried like an idiot, then came home and started a new one same size. Same hands. I don't know how people do this long term. Do you eventually stop feeling like you're amputating something? Because I've sold maybe twenty pieces now and every single time I hand it over I have this split second where I want to say actually no, never mind. You're supposed to be glad. I AM glad. Rent is paid. But there's a version of that drawing that only existed on my wall and now it's in some stranger's dining room and I'll never see it again. Anyway. Making it again. Bigger.

i raised my prices in march. 450 to 850 on the mid size canvases, the 60x80 ones. sold one in nine days to a guy who runs a bike shop, paid full, didn't haggle, thanked me for my time. i thought ok. this is the part where it clicks. raised again in june to 1400 on the same size. crickets. not "too expensive" crickets, just silence. three inquiries since then that all went "love your work!! do you have anything smaller?" which i now understand is code for a different number entirely. what's annoying is i know the advice is right. the 850 sale proved there's demand above where i was. but i can't tell if 1400 is a real ceiling or if i just killed the discovery thing by fiddling with it. i'm not consistent, i post when i finish something, sometimes twice a week sometimes twice a month. so the raise landed on a feed that already forgets i exist between paintings. the other theory, and i hate this one, is that 850 was the "i can justify this on a card" number and 1400 is the "this needs a conversation with my partner" number. completely different buyer, not just a different price. anyway i'm painting the big one for the show in october and telling myself the answer lives in there. it does not live in there. it lives in a spreadsheet i refuse to open.

Did a commission last year, a big welded steel piece for a private yard. Took seven weeks, three hundred hours easy. When I invoiced her I did the math in my head and it came out to about $38 an hour. That's my day rate, and I've been charging basically the same number for ten years. The scare is that I know exactly which clients would flinch if I moved it. One of them has been with me since I was doing fabrication for hire in the eighties. He pays on time, never haggles, sends me work when I'm slow. Raising my price feels like saying his loyalty runs second to my wallet. So I don't. I just quietly eat the difference and tell myself the piece took longer than usual. A younger guy in my shop asked me the other day what I charge and I lied about it. Not even a big lie, just rounded up a little so I wouldn't sound stupid. Ten years in this and I still choke on my own number. That's the part nobody warns you about: it's not the clients you're scared of, it's looking at yourself and admitting what your time is worth.

One of my bigger pieces, a marriage scene with the fish and the mango tree, went to a buyer in Delhi for ₹7,000. That sounds respectable until you sit and count the days. Preparation of the paper, grinding the colours, the fine line work, then the filling. I worked maybe four hours each day for nine days. That is thirty-six hours. Seven thousand divided by thirty-six comes to about ₹194 an hour. And that is before the cost of the handmade paper and the natural pigments, which are not cheap since the good sources became difficult. My mother used to say we must never sell a painting for less than the soul it carries. But the soul does not pay for the grandson's school books. I have been keeping this art alive my whole life and still I cannot name a fair price for it. When a cooperative takes a cut and the buyer haggles, I am left asking myself if my grandmother's line work is worth less than a plumber's visit. I raised my price to ₹8,500 this month. I am scared to go higher because the buyers are not many. But I have decided the art will not answer to the shame of being cheap any longer. If it sells, good. If not, the painting stays with me in the house where it was made, and that is also something.

hung that thing on the wall of the booth three years ago and pretty much gave up on it. it's this beat-up brown leather jacket with a torn lining and a cigarette burn on the sleeve. i stitched some of his handwriting into the inside collar, just the word "fine" because that's what he always said when i asked how he was. someone bought it today. a guy maybe late 50s who didn't say much. just pointed at it and said "that one." didn't haggle. didn't ask about it. i don't know why that hit me harder than selling a painting. maybe because it's not even really mine to sell. or maybe because i'd forgotten something could just leave.

I had this piece sitting in my studio forever. A birdhouse made from an old fuse box, wired with a single warm bulb inside. I thought $450 was fair, maybe even a little high. Three years. Nobody. Then this woman comes by, loves it, pays asking price no haggling. I was just relieved to have it gone. Then a friend texts me a screenshot from some HBO show. There's my fuse box birdhouse in the background of a scene. She looked it up, the set dresser rented it from a prop house for two grand. For a week. I charged $450 for something that took me years to make and someone else made almost 5x that in a week just for having it on a shelf in a fictional living room. And honestly I don't even know who to be mad at. The system? Myself for not knowing what things are worth? Both? Still trying to figure out what the actual lesson is here. Not sure it's just "charge more."

so i did the math months later and that's like $18/hr before materials. and she was the one who suggested the price, i just nodded. i knew it was low but i didn't wanna be the guy who haggles with a friend. now every time i look at that painting i just see $18/hour staring back at me. i don't even know what i'd have said if i had to name it. 500? 800? feels fake to ask for that. but 200 also feels fake for 11 hours. so i'm stuck in the middle where both numbers feel wrong and i just don't talk about money with anyone i know personally anymore lol

I nearly didn't put it up. Bad light, the smalti looked grey instead of the deep red it actually is, and you could see my slippers in the corner of the shot. I posted it anyway because I had nothing else ready and the algorithm is a hungry animal. Two days later a woman in Zurich wrote to me. She wanted a panel two metres wide for a stairwell. Paid the deposit the same week, no haggling, no "can you do it cheaper if we skip the gold." I asked her later what made her write. She said the slippers. She said it looked like a real person's floor, not a showroom. Meanwhile the professionally shot photos I paid a photographer 400 euro for, the ones with the grey backdrop and the careful angles, they got the likes. Nothing else. Likes and nothing. I still don't fully understand what I'm doing out here. I post less now and half of it is badly lit. But I've stopped pretending the work happens in a white room, because it doesn't, it happens in my kitchen with one cat sitting on the tesserae I just sorted.

Last spring I sent a quote to a small Kunsthalle for a room installation. Fourteen thousand euros. Materials, three weeks of my time, the two students who help me weld and haul, transport from the depot in Holešovice, and the part nobody budgets for, which is the week at the end where you walk through the thing alone and move eleven objects until it stops feeling wrong. The reply came back the next morning. She asked whether the fourteen thousand was per square metre. I sat with that for a while. Not because she was being rude. Because she genuinely did not know what she was looking at. In her head a room of art is a quantity, like gravel or plasterboard, and it must have a unit price. Somewhere in her institution there is a spreadsheet column for that. I wrote back and said no, it is for the whole room, and then I halved it, because I wanted the show and because I am fifty-eight and still doing that. Seven thousand. She said it was a lot for a temporary project. I said nothing for two days. Then I signed. The thing I keep chewing on is that the number was never the problem. I could have held fourteen and she would have found it, institutions find money when they want the work. The problem is I have no vocabulary for defending the figure. I can talk about assemblage for an hour. Ask me why a room costs what it costs and I go quiet and discount myself like a man haggling over his own coat. I am told younger artists have this figured out. I hope so. It took me thirty years to learn to weld properly and I still cannot say a price out loud without apologizing in the same sentence.

So I finally did the thing everyone says you should do and put the price right in the caption, not "DM for price," just there, 450 zł for the A3 pastel portrait, framed, shipping in Poland included. I sat on that edit for two days before posting it, which is embarrassing to type out. Anyway. Four people asked about it before I did that. After I put the number up, three people asked and then two of them went quiet the moment I answered. Not rude, just gone. And weirdly I felt better? Because I stopped having to perform the little dance where someone says "so beautiful" and I say "thank you so much" and we both pretend nobody is thinking about money. One woman did buy. Paid full price, no haggling, and then told me she'd assumed I'd charge more. I don't know what to do with that information, honestly. I've been undercharging for two years partly because I was afraid, and now I'm scared I've taught everyone the wrong price. Is it normal that the silence after the number is worse than a no? I can handle a no. The quiet is what gets me.

I put 900 zł on a 10x14 pastel portrait last month. First time I ever said a number out loud without adding "but we can work something out" after it. My hands were shaking a bit, which is embarrassing to type. For context, pastel is fast compared to oils but it is not fast. Toned paper, the layering, the fixing between passes, the part where I sit with it two days and decide the jaw is wrong and start the whole lower half again. Eleven, twelve hours if it goes well. Then I did the actual math and it came to about 75 zł an hour, before paper and the fixative that costs more than I want to admit because I buy the good one. And here is the thing I keep turning over. I did not raise it because I suddenly decided I am worth it. I raised it because I had four commissions stacked in one week and I was not sleeping, and I thought if I say the real number maybe two people go away and I can breathe. Nobody went away. All four said yes, quickly, no haggling. One asked if she could pay extra for a bigger size. So now I am sitting here slightly annoyed at myself, which is a strange feeling to have about your own pricing. All those months of undercharging and calling it being realistic. I have another one to quote tomorrow and I have already written 1,300 zł on the scrap paper, and I keep looking at it like it is a typo. If anyone has gone through the jump from "please like me" pricing to the other thing, I would genuinely like to hear how the first few went, because the number itself was the easy part. Saying it without flinching is the rest of it.

Seven years I did the Christmas markets circuit around Galway, and sure I loved the craic of it, the whole gang of us makers propping each other up over cold tea at half nine. But I started doing the sums on it last year and the amount of hours I was standing on my feet to shift maybe thirty prints at a tenner margin each... you'd get more per hour stacking shelves in Tesco. So I pulled out of the big one this winter. No table, no fairy lights, no man trying to haggle me down to a fiver for something that took me two days to carve. What I did instead was dead boring. I printed a plain little catalogue, four pages, black and white, every piece photographed flat on the kitchen table with the kids' homework shoved out of frame, and I posted the damn thing to about forty people who've bought off me before or who run the small galleries I've dealt with. Old school. Envelopes and stamps, like a man posting letters to his granny. And it worked. Sold twenty-three prints before December even got going. People wrote back, some of them just to say they liked the look of the hare on page two, no purchase, and that's grand too. The gallery in Westport took twelve on the strength of a paper catalogue and a phone call. I'm not saying markets are dead. I'm saying I was so busy performing the selling I forgot the actual selling. Nobody wants to scroll you at a draughty hall in November when they can sit in their own kitchen and pick what they genuinely like off a table of your work. Turns out the thing that worked was the most old-fashioned thing I could have done, and my phone never once told me how many people saw it.

Sold a set of three watercolour sketches of houses off MG Road to a regular client last month. Flat ₹6,000 for the set, which felt fair at the time because it's a nice round number and I priced it on the spot without thinking. Then I tallied up the actual drawing time, not even counting the two mornings I went back because the light was wrong. Twenty-one hours. That's ₹285 an hour before paper, paint, and the frames I threw in as a "goodwill" gesture because they're a repeat buyer. I keep telling myself the goodwill matters, the relationship matters, the next commission matters. And it does. But I did the same maths my old architecture firm used to do on billable hours and I winced. The worst part is I know exactly why I did it. Round numbers feel easier to say out loud. I'm still scared that if I quote ₹9,000 or ₹10,000 for a set, someone will just go "okay, no thanks" and I'll have lost it. But honestly, the client who haggles over ₹3,000 is not the client I want anyway. Still haven't raised my price for the next set. Working up to it.

I quoted a collector €480 for a 60x80 interior. Sold it, framed it, delivered it. Then I kept notes like I used to and counted: 30 hours from drawing to the last glaze. Sixteen euros an hour, and that's before the pigments and the linen and the four months it sat drying in my studio. The part that sits badly is that nobody forced me. The client never balked, never haggled. I set the number, and I set it too low, and I knew it while I was writing the invoice. There's a fear in the hand that writes a price, a little flinch you can feel. It gets better with practice but it never fully leaves. What helps me when it's my own fault: I price exhibitions with a conversation first, not a number out of the air. "What's the wall, what's the size, what's it worth to you." Sometimes people name a figure higher than I would have dared. That's information. You just have to sit there and not correct them.

Ran the edition of the heron prints down to the last one today and the fella who bought it was the first person all day who didn't try to haggle. Just handed over the cash and said "that's for my mother, she loves the birds." Fair play to him. Nice way to finish the stall, walking home with an empty tube and a bit of a bounce in the step. Some days you sell one, some days you sell nothing and you'd swear the dog was looking at you sideways for it, but today the whole run's gone and that's a good feeling all round. The mother in question better like the print now, that's all I'm saying. 🌟

Okay so I finally did the thing everyone says to do and raised my prices, like a real jump, not just $5, and I instantly lost three of my regulars who'd been buying from me since I started selling online. One of them literally said "I'll wait til you come back down" which honestly stung more than I expected it to. But here's the part I wasn't ready for, the people who are buying at the new price are asking different questions? They're not haggling or asking about shipping times, they're asking about process, about what I was thinking with the composition, about whether I have more in that series. The conversations are just... better. And I'm making the same amount per month with half the sales and way less time packing things up. I don't know if this is a fluke or if it's actually how it goes but I keep waiting to feel bad about losing those regulars and I just... don't? I feel guilty for not feeling guilty lol. Has anyone else had this happen or did I just get lucky?