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Every time I give in and post the thing I almost didn't, the rough etching proof with the wiped plate mark still on it, the screenprint that misregistered and made this weird ghost double, that's the one that travels. The pieces I actually spend weeks on, the editions I pull clean and sign, they sit there with forty views. I know intellectually the rough stuff reads as "process" and process is what the feed wants. We're all supposed to be celebrating the handmade and the imperfect now. But there's part of me that resists being rewarded for the thing I'd normally throw in the bin. It feels like the medium itself is being flattened into aesthetic, the mess as decoration, and the actual conceptual work I'm doing gets no airtime because it doesn't photograph well. Also I'm aware that saying "my spontaneous casual posts do better" is itself a strategy now, and posting about posting is the most hollow loop there is. I tried leaning into it. Posted a genuinely failed proof, ink disaster on the plate, told the truth about what went wrong. It did numbers. And I felt weirdly used, like I'd sold the accident instead of the labour. Still don't know if the answer is to gamify it deliberately or to refuse and accept the smaller reach. Anyone else caught in that particular trap?

Third time this week my Riso has eaten a master and crumpled it into a little accordion. I know it's probably the paper moisture or the master tension or whatever, but I've cleaned the drum twice, adjusted the feed, and it still decides to destroy every tenth print like it's personal. The worst part is the sound. That high-pitched mechanical scream when it jams. My studio mate in the next room doesn't even ask anymore, she just hears the noise and goes "again?" through the wall. I know this machine is supposed to be this beautiful imperfect tool and the flaws are part of the charm. I don't want charm. I want fifty zines by Friday and this thing is testing my commitment to the multiple as a concept.

I have six canvases stretched on bars I built in 2009, in my old studio on the third floor, before I knew what I was doing with a mitre saw. The corners are slightly off, I remember measuring twice and still cutting wrong. Every few years I look at them and think, I should restretch these. And then I don't, because the paintings on them are done and the slight tilt gives them something. A small imperfection you can't quite name. I told a young painter last week that he'd save himself time learning the joinery properly. Then I came home and looked at those bars. Naja. There's a difference between sloppy and accidental, and I'd rather be wrong on the accidental side.

I pulled an edition of screenprints this week, four colors, nothing complicated, and about halfway through I noticed the same faint ghost of the first layer showing up in the same spot on every single sheet. Not a misprint exactly. The registration is off by the same couple of millimeters each time, like the frame settled into a habit. Part of me wanted to scrap the lot and start over. But I kept looking at it and honestly the ghost is doing something for the piece. It reads like the image has a memory of itself. Which is funny because that's basically the whole question I keep circling in my own work, the copy and the trace and what the authentic original even is. And here it is, accidental, in forty identical sheets. I haven't decided yet. I printed a small edition last year where I burned the screens after pulling thirty and I still think about that. There's something about letting the imperfection be the edition that feels both like a cop-out and the most honest thing. Anyway. The work is leaning on it. Or I'm rationalising it. Hard to tell from inside.

I've been thinking about how etching forces you to accept that you don't fully control the outcome. You can prepare the plate perfectly, time the bite, measure the acid concentration, and still something happens in the bath that you didn't plan for. A tiny pinhole you missed, a breath of air that moved the mordant differently, the temperature changing because someone opened a window. I used to fight this. I wanted the plate to be exactly what I imagined. Now I think the whole point is that it never is. The acid has its own intelligence, or maybe it's just indifferent, either way, you're in conversation with something that doesn't care about your plans. My assistant asked me yesterday why I don't just work digitally if I want clean lines. And I couldn't explain that the imperfection is the content. That a line that's been bitten by acid is different from a line that's been drawn, it's been through something. Maybe I'm just getting older and learning to let things be what they are. Or maybe I'm rationalising a plate I ruined this morning. Both can be true.

Okay so I saw that post about ugly websites converting and it got me thinking because honestly? My own marketing feels like that sometimes. Like, I'm supposed to be this "artist" with a clean brand but my process posts are always so chaotic, sometimes I even accidentally show my dirty mug or a paint smudge on my arm and omg, the engagement on those is SO much higher than the perfectly curated ones. People seem to like seeing the actual work and not just the finished product. It feels super counterintuitive to the whole 'aspirational' vibe that marketing gurus push, but I'm getting more comments and saves on the messy stuff. Anyone else finding that the more you lean into the imperfect, the better things perform? It’s kinda making me want to just dump all my WIPs and sketches everywhere lol.