Search

I've had the same A3 self-healing mat for maybe twelve years and I'll never replace it. The surface is covered in fine scars, blade paths, compass points, a long crescent from when I got careless with a scalpel in 2019. I know exactly where each mark is, the way you know the worn spots on a wooden floor. Started a new piece today and caught myself avoiding the clean areas on purpose. Placing the paper over the old cuts like they're part of the composition somehow. I don't know if that's sensible or sentimental. Probably both.

My daughter, she studies in Patna now, came home for Diwali and saw me sitting with the brush and she said, Baba why are you not putting this on the phone. I told her I don't understand all this. So she took the phone, and she made one of those short videos, just my hand and the brush and the fish I was drawing, not even twenty seconds. She put some music on top which I found too loud, but I said nothing. In one week people came to my stall asking for the fish painting. A lady from Delhi bought two. A girl came and said she saw me on Instagram and wanted to learn. All this after I spent so many years doing exhibitions and cooperative meetings the proper way. I felt like such a fool ji, that the thing I ignored was the thing that worked. Now I am learning. My niece is teaching me to hold the phone steady while I paint. But I am also worried. The video showed the fish and the peacock, but nobody saw the ten years behind that line, the discipline, the ritual, the grandmother who taught my mother who taught me. I want the buyers but I also want them to know this is not decoration, this is our history. How do I put the history in a twenty second video without losing the people.

weird thing I've never told anyone in studio circles. the thing I reach for most to cut paper and carve into board is a bread knife my ex left behind when he moved out. he didn't want it, it was in the drawer of stuff neither of us claimed. serrated edge is perfect for tearing through wet paper without crushing it. been using it four years now. sometimes I think about how the best tool in my practice is a piece of a marriage I didn't even want to keep. I don't know what that says about me or the work but it's true. anyone else working with objects that have a weird history attached? not sentimental pieces, I mean the ones you use daily without thinking until suddenly you do.

Sanded down a linen panel this morning that I'd laid a bad imprimatura on last week, and caught myself muttering sorry to it while I worked. As if the panel had feelings. As if I hadn't made it ugly myself in the first place. The strange thing is I know painters who won't scrape a canvas once they've started. They'd rather paint over a dead layer than admit two days went nowhere. I used to be one of them. There's something almost devout about it, this refusal to let a bad start go. But honestly the sanding is often where the painting gets saved. You kill the preciousness, the surface comes back toothy and soft, and suddenly you're not trying to rescue something anymore, you're just starting again with better dirt under your nails. My daughter watched me do it and asked why I didn't just buy a fresh panel. And I didn't have a good answer that wasn't sentimental. It's the same board, so it has history, but it's cheaper than new and it owes me nothing. I think I just like the ritual of it. The erasing. Some days the most honest hour in the studio is the one where you delete your own work.

I have this one stick of willow charcoal I've kept for like four years, only ever use it for the same piece. It's down to a nub now, maybe two inches, and the thought of finishing it is weirdly paralyzing. Every time I pick it up I think this might be the last pass it's got in it. I know that's not rational. I could buy a hundred more for twelve bucks. But this specific one came from the first batch of supplies I bought when I actually started taking this seriously, right after my brother's stuff stopped being boxes and started being material. So it's got history in it, whatever that means. Anyway I used it today on the piece I'm working on, a portrait made from my father-in-law's old letters, torn up. And it's fine. It's just charcoal. But I keep having this conversation with myself about whether finishing it is a good thing or an ending, and I can't tell which. Do other people do this with a tool? Hold onto the last of something like it's going to vanish when it's gone?

A gallery in Berlin asked for my follower count before they'd even look at slides. Not my CV, not my exhibition history, not the work. Just the number. I told them 4,800 and the conversation cooled about ten degrees. They said they'd "keep me in mind." I've been painting seriously for thirty years. Thirty. I remember when a gallery would come to your studio and stand in front of the canvas for fifteen minutes before saying anything. Naja. I can't even be angry, I'm too tired for it. But I keep thinking about what that number actually measures. It measures how well I perform for strangers on a phone. It doesn't measure a single thing about whether the work is any good. The irony is I'm not even a Luddite about it. I post, I show the process, I answer comments. My daughter set up the whole account for me and I've learned to tolerate it. But I refuse to make the account the point. I'll take the smaller galleries, the ones that still come to the studio and stand in front of the wall for a while. There are fewer of them every year, but they exist. I don't know what the answer is. I just know I didn't spend my twenties learning to draw so that my worth could be decided by an algorithm in California.

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?

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.

This American couple at a café in Vieux Lyon yesterday. The man sees me mixing a small study at my table, just a pear, a bottle, a cloth, nothing ambitious, and he sits down uninvited. Starts telling me about "the real Lyon" you have to find off the main streets. The traboules, the bouchons, the silk history. I've lived here forty-four years. My grandfather worked in the Canuts. But I let him finish because there's a certain comedy to it, and because my painting was going badly and I needed a break from looking at it. Then his wife notices I'm French and asks if I've ever been to Paris. Like it's the natural next stop on the tour.

I did it this morning. Third time I've repainted this interior, same corner of my studio, same grey November light through the window, and it just would not settle. The drawing was off, the values were muddy, I kept overmixing and killing the colour. So I took the palette knife and scraped the whole thing back to a thin brown smear on the canvas. There's this moment after you scrape. The painting's gone, but the canvas has a history now, ghosts of all the wrong decisions. The surface is smoother, there's a stain to work into instead of a white void. And suddenly I can see what was wrong the whole time. The floor plane was tilted. Of course. I don't know if other painters feel this, but scraping down is almost better than a good day of painting. It's a reset without being a blank slate. You keep the mistakes as a foundation. Very few things in life work like that.

I got to sorting my scrap basket this morning. Lord, it was a mess. I mean a honest-to-goodness tangle of strips and triangles and odd-shaped pieces I told myself I'd use someday. And I got to noticing how I sort 'em, by color family first, then by what they came from. That little blue floral, that's from a dress my niece wore to Easter Sunday back in ought-eight. That mustard yellow, that's a man's shirt from the thrift that I unpicked for the good seams. I don't just sort fabric, I sort memories. And I thought, well that's me all over. Can't throw nothing away if it carried a story. My grandmother was the same way, she had a button tin that was more family history than any photo album. I told my daughter this morning, I said, I don't know if I'm a quilter who saves things or a saver who quilts. She just laughed and handed me her old jeans with a tear in the knee. "Here, Mama," she said. "Add me to the pile." I reckon that's what I'll do this afternoon. Turn her jeans into something she'll give her own girl one day. Y'all got a scrap basket that's really a memory basket too? Or am I just the old woman who can't let go? 🙂

I keep seeing the war stories piling up in here, and I've got a few of my own. But I'm curious about something more basic. When you were starting out with gallery outreach, how many did you approach before one actually took you on? Mine was 22. Twenty-two polite rejections, non-replies, and one very confusing meeting that went nowhere before a small natural-history museum gallery in the Pacific Northwest said yes. That yes changed everything for me, but I nearly gave up at about number 15. I've had students ask me this and I never know what to tell them. What was your number? And was it worth the ones that said no?

I spent this morning painting a section of an old workbench in my studio. The light here in Lyon, even on a cloudy day, has this particular quality that catches the grain of the wood, the worn patches where tools have rested for years. It’s a subtle thing, this interplay of light and texture, but it’s what I’m always chasing. It makes you feel the history of the object. It’s why I love oils so much; the paint itself can hold that physical sensation. Some days it feels like a battle to get it right, but when it clicks, voilà.

I spent eleven years painting before I had a gallery willing to represent me. Not for lack of trying, mind you. I sent portfolios, made appointments, attended openings, did all the proper things. Nothing. What finally worked was a letter. Not an email, a proper letter on good paper, after a small show of mine got a modest review in a regional paper. I wrote to the director of a small natural-history gallery two states away, enclosed photographs of my actual work, and said I thought we might suit each other. She wrote back within the week. We worked together for thirteen years. I still wonder whether it was the letter, the timing, or simply that I stopped trying to impress and started stating plainly what I could offer. How did you land your first gallery? Was it persistence, a lucky introduction, or something you'd never repeat?

So my granddaughter set up my Instagram a few years back, and I just post what I'm working on. I don't know all the tricks, I just put the quilt up there with whatever I feel like saying about it. And this young lady from California, she's a curator at some museum, I had to look it up, messages me and says she found my work through a hashtag I didn't even put on there. #improvisationalpiecing, something somebody else tagged me with. She said she'd been looking for quilters working "in the Gee's Bend lineage" and couldn't find nobody who wasn't already famous and priced out of reach. I sold her a quilt for $800. She found it through a tag I didn't even know existed. I got regular customers, Lord bless 'em, the ones who buy baby quilts and lap quilts for their mama. That's steady money. But the people who find me through these art-world tags, they're a different kind of buyer entirely. They want the story. They want the history. They don't blink at the price. Makes me think I'm posting for the wrong audience half the time. But I don't have the energy to chase two worlds at once. Y'all got any advice on that?

There's a gallery in my town that turned me down flat about eight years ago. Polite rejection, but firm. At the time I took it personally and questioned everything. Two years later that same gallery closed. I don't wish anyone out of business, but it turned out my work found a better home at a small natural-history museum instead, where the director actually understood the tradition I work in and let me paint what I paint. That rejection was a mercy in hindsight. Anyone else have a "no" that turned out to be doing them a favour? What did you do with the work they turned away?

My baby girl's wedding was last month and I finished her quilt two days before the ceremony. Two days, y'all. I been sewing since I could hold a needle and I still cut it that close. Every night for six months I was in that sewing room after supper, listening to my old radio, ripping out seams and re-doing them like a brand new girl. She asked for her great-grandmother's pattern, the one my grandmother made for my own wedding back when we didn't have two nickels. I didn't have that quilt no more, but I had a scrap of it. Mama kept one corner of it all these years and gave it to me, and I sewed that little piece of history right into the center of hers. She cried when she saw it and so did I, and neither one of us was ashamed. It ain't perfect. One seam on the back is a little crooked and I could see it clear as day every time I looked at it. But my grandmother used to say a quilt's got to have a mistake in it somewhere, because only the Lord makes things perfect. So I left it. Now I'm just glad it's done and out of my house before I had to look at it one more time, ha.

An interior designer from Atlanta bought five of my quilts this spring to stage a house they were flipping. Paid full price, no haggling, wired the money same day. Not one word about the piecing, the history, the work itself. Just wanted the colors to match a rug. And you know, at first it stung a little. Here I spent fifty years learning to make cloth talk and she wanted a throw pillow. But then I thought about it, because she asked me to cut them loose and let her hang them on a wall instead of a bed, that designer's clients are going to see my work and their grandmothers are going to ask who made it. That's the seed. Same with that gallery show I had in January. The lady who bought the biggest piece told me she'd never owned anything by a Black woman artist and honestly I didn't know whether to feel honored or put on a shelf. I told my granddaughter about it and she said "Mae, they're not buying the quilt, they're buying the wall." And maybe that's the truth of it. The work carries more than I get credit for while I'm standing there. All these years I'd get a little quiet when somebody talked about my quilts being "art" instead of what they are. But the money talks, honey, and the money walked right into my checking account. I guess what I'm saying is don't turn your nose up at the sale that feels a little off. That one may carry the next three.

I've been wrestling with a pile of oak beams salvaged from a demolished factory. They have this immense, solid feel, a density that seems to carry the history of the place. Trying to figure out how to join them for a new piece without losing that inherent gravity. Sometimes the material just sits there, stubbornly itself, and you have to listen very carefully to what it wants to become. Or, more often, what it absolutely will not become.

Younger artist came to me for advice, said a gallery took thirty percent off his first solo. I told him that's nothing, wait till you price your own time as a pile of old radiators and broken chairs and realize you've been paying for the privilege of working. A collector here in Prague commissioned a piece for his villa. I quoted 18,000 CZK, which felt fair. Then I spent a month sourcing, cleaning, assembling. Did the math after delivery. Between material and hours I cleared maybe 120 Kč an hour. That's less than the guy who delivers my coffee. I keep doing this. I've told myself for twenty years that installation work doesn't price like a painting, that the process is part of it, that the history of the objects matters. And then I sit down with a calculator and it's 120 Kč an hour. Some things I did under the old regime I did for nothing because I had to hide them. Now I do them for nothing because I'm bad at saying a number and staying in the room while the silence stretches. The two feel different in theory. In practice, my bank account can't tell the difference.