Search

Painted a still life tonight at the kitchen table after the kids went down. Same table we ate spaghetti at two hours earlier. I wiped it down, laid out the drop cloth, and there's still a smear of tomato sauce on the corner of my reference photo that I just decided to live with. I used to feel bad about not having a real studio space. Read all these posts about people's dedicated rooms with north light and proper easels and I'd get all wistful. But honestly the kitchen table works. The light is awful. The cat walks across my palette at least twice a session. My 8 year old stuck a drawing of a dinosaur to the easel I can't even use because there's no room for it. But it's the only uninterrupted hour I get and I'll take it. Finished a decent little pear study tonight, better than my last one. That's the whole win. Packed it up and now I'm eating leftover spaghetti over the sink like a civilized person. Who else is painting on a dining room table or a folding tray or wherever they can grab space?

Started a new still life tonight after the kids finally went to bed. Got all my supplies out on the kitchen table, got my palette set up, got maybe 20 minutes into blocking in the background and realized I forgot to pack my son's lunch for tomorrow. So I had to stop, wipe my hands, make a sandwich, put the grapes in the little container he'll complain about anyway. Came back and the paint on my palette was already starting to skin over. I love painting in the cracks of the day but man, I dream about having a space I can just leave a mess and come back to. Even a corner. Just one corner where a half-finished canvas isn't in danger of getting ketchup on it. Anyone else making it work in a non-studio studio? How do you handle the constant setup/teardown without losing momentum?

Pulled a proof last night at about eleven because the kids were finally down and the house was quiet for the first time in, I swear, three days. Carved the block back in March, one of those hares I keep doing and telling myself I'll stop doing, and I've been avoiding it since because the design was off and I knew it. So I sat there with the light on over the sink, rolled the ink, and pulled it. And you know what, it was grand. Not perfect. The ear's still bothering me. But there's a moment when the paper lifts off the block and the image comes through that makes me forget every hour I've spent staring at it from the wrong angle. I left it drying on the kitchen table and my wife found it this morning and said "oh that's a nice one" and I nearly told her it was old news, but I didn't. I just said thanks and made the tea. Still think the ear is wrong though. Is there a single piece any of us has ever finished where there isn't one bit, one corner, one line that you'd carve out and start again if you had the patience? I'm starting to think chasing the perfect ear is the whole point and I'd have nothing to do if I ever caught it.

So I ran out of gesso mid-priming a canvas tonight and instead of just going to bed like a normal person I read about making your own with rabbit skin glue and whiting. Which obviously I'm not doing because the thought of rendering animal glue in my kitchen makes me a little queasy AND my 8 year old would absolutely try to eat it. But I did mix some acrylic medium with plaster of Paris to see what happens and now there's a weird little test square drying on cardboard that I'll report back on like it matters. It probably won't be anything, but honestly the kitchen-table science is half the fun of this hobby. I've ruined two good wooden spoons and my husband has stopped asking questions. Anyone else ever actually bothered with homemade grounds or do we all just buy the tub?

For years I told myself I'd set up a real studio once the kids got older. Meanwhile there's a vinyl tablecloth, a jar of water, and my brushes in an old mug from a hospital fundraiser. Everything has to come off the table by 9 or we can't eat breakfast. Last night I got about forty minutes on a sky, got the clouds where I wanted them, and then had to pack it all back into the closet before the paint was even dry to the touch. Wet canvas went on top of the fridge. That's just where it lives now. And honestly? The packing up is annoying but the table is fine. I stopped waiting for the perfect room. Anyone else working out of a kitchen or a corner and making it work?

I've been trying to paint that scratched-up yellow Formica table my mom had in the 90s for like three years now. The one where I did homework and she paid bills and we ate cereal at 10pm because nobody felt like cooking. Every attempt came out stiff or too sentimental. Last night I just went at it loose, no sketching, just blocked in the yellow and let the scratches happen with a dry brush. Painted the little chip by the corner where my brother threw a toy truck. Put a salt shaker on it because she always left one out. And it's just. Right. My husband came in and said "that's your mom's kitchen" without me telling him what it was. I don't know why that hit me so hard. Maybe because I feel like I finally painted something only I could paint. Anyway just wanted to share with people who get it. 🥲

not a finished piece. not even lit properly. torn paper scraps, a cold mug, half a charcoal stick, and the actual mess of whatever I was building. I get it now and I hate it a little. people don't want the object, they want the evidence that a person was in a room at a bad hour making it. the finished thing looks effortless and effortless is boring. problem is I can't manufacture that. the second I set up a tripod for the "process shot" it dies. it reads as a product demo. the one that worked I took because I wanted to send it to a friend and complain about my back. so my whole strategy is now: notice when I'm already in the middle of something at a dumb hour, and take the phone out before I've cleaned up or decided it's worth showing. which is not a strategy. it's a habit of not tidying. my mother would be thrilled.

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.

I spent the whole afternoon yesterday just looking at my kitchen table. Not painting it. Not photographing it. Just watching how the light moved across the surface of a wooden bowl, a half-empty glass, a cloth I'd left crumpled. From about 3:30 to 5, the quality of it, that cold winter light coming in low, bouncing off the building across the street, was something I could never invent and could never capture with a camera. The photos I took are dead. Flat. They have all the information and none of the truth. It makes me wonder how much time I've wasted collecting reference images when I should have been training my eye to hold what it sees. The camera is a crutch. A useful one, I use it too. But it flattens everything into information, and painting is not about information.

The tube split open this morning near the crimp, so I had to decant the last of it into a small jar. Zinc white I have had since maybe 2019. The new tube from the same maker is stiffer, more chalky, and cools everything it touches. I know the sensible thing is to do an underpainting with it and see if the difference even matters under a glaze. Instead I sat there at the easel mixing it with a little linseed and telling myself it was fine, which is not the same as it being fine. A student asked me last week why I do not just buy the good stuff, meaning the expensive stuff, meaning the stuff I probably should buy. I did not have a good answer. I have a good answer for almost everything else in that studio. Anyway I am painting a corner of the kitchen table with a bowl and a half peeled orange, and the white is the whole thing. Everything else is just the white being interrupted.

Lads, I have a confession. The hare print sold out before Christmas, all forty of them gone, and I'm still in the workshop every night gouging away at the same block like a lunatic. Told myself I was doing a second run. I even bought the paper, a big sheet of Fabriano I sliced down at the kitchen table on Sunday while the young fella ate his Weetabix and judged me silently. But that's a lie. I'm not running an edition. I'm just carving her over and over because I haven't figured out the next thing yet and I can't stand the quiet of a blank block sitting there. You know the way it goes. Every printmaker has the one image that pays the rent and pays the soul and they don't always line up. And when you're between ideas you reach for the thing your hands already know, and you tell yourself it's practice, and it is, sort of, but it's also hiding. My wife asked me the other night how long I was going to keep at the hare and I said grand, not long, and she gave me the look. She knows the look she's getting back. Sitting there with a fresh cup of tea going cold beside me, six hours in, and I'd swear I've made the ears slightly better each time. Which is the problem. They're fine. They were fine the first time. Anyway. I'll stop.

so i killed my instagram in february. 11k followers, three years of posting almost daily. the reach had gone to shit anyway, i was getting maybe 200 views on a reel that took me an afternoon, and i kept catching myself making work that would photograph well instead of work i wanted to make. that's the part that got me. i made a piece in january specifically because i knew the process video would do numbers. it did. i hated the piece. anyway i deleted it. no announcement, nothing, just gone. what i did instead: went back to emailing. actual emails to about 40 people, buyers from the last two years plus a few gallerists and one curator who'd been nice to me once. no newsletter platform, no funnel, just me at the kitchen table with the names in a spreadsheet. one email every four or five weeks with a photo of whatever's on the wall and one line about what i'm doing. sold four pieces since february. which is more than i sold in the previous eight months of posting. i don't fully understand it. maybe it's that email feels like a person and the feed feels like a shop. maybe i just got better at asking. either way i'm not going back and i feel slightly stupid for the three years i spent chasing views that never turned into anything. the thing i can't decide is whether this only works because i already had the followers to begin with. like if i were starting from zero tomorrow would i have to do the whole dance again. i think probably yes and i don't like that answer

Ok so back in maybe March my mom's friend Carol asked if I'd do a little watercolor of her parents' old farmhouse, the one they sold in like 2004, and I said sure thinking it'd take me a weekend. It took eleven days. Not because it was hard exactly but because I kept redoing the roof shingles and then the tree line behind it and then the sky, which I painted four separate times and none of them were right and one of them was genuinely bad. I charged her $150. I don't even know why, she didn't ask for a discount, I just heard myself say it out loud on the phone and then couldn't walk it back. Eleven days. My Arches paper alone is like $6 a sheet and I went through five because of the sky situation. And the thing is she cried when I gave it to her, like actually cried at her kitchen table, so part of me is like, ok, that's worth something, that's not nothing. But I also sat in my car afterward doing the math on my phone and felt sick. I'm not even asking what I should have charged, I know what I should have charged. I think I'm asking how you stop doing this. Because I have another one of these coming, my aunt already asked, and I can feel myself about to say a number that's too low just to make the silence stop.

I stopped photographing my work the way galleries want. No seamless backdrop, no tripod, no little grey card for the white balance. I shoot it where it lives. On the studio floor with the tray of cut smalti still spilled beside it, the broom somewhere in frame, cement dust on everything. A gallery person told me last year it looked "unprofessional." Fine. The last three pieces I sold went to people who saw them on my kitchen table, next to a half-finished cup of coffee and a cat tail at the edge of the shot. Two of them told me it was the floor mess that made them trust it, that the polished shots looked like something from a catalogue and they stopped looking. Meanwhile the gallery took its own photos for the exhibition. Beautiful. Bright. Completely dead. A visitor walked straight past the actual mosaic on the wall, which is standing there glowing, and looked at the printed photo on the label card for forty seconds. I watched her do it. So now I'm sending out images with my knees in them and my father's old tile nippers lying there and I've made 2 sales this month from DMs about the background clutter, not the work. I don't fully understand it. I just know that the beautiful photo has stopped doing anything.

I been sewing log cabin blocks since I was maybe nine years old, sitting at my grandmother's machine with a footstool so I could reach the pedal. Thought I knew everything there was to know about it. Strip, strip, strip, go around and around. Then Tuesday I was piecing one for a new quilt and the light came on at my kitchen table, of all places. I had laid out this coral fabric from a dress my mama wore to church in the sixties, and I put it next to this dull brown from a pair of work pants my daddy had, and something in me just stopped. All these years I been cutting my strips even and square and neat. And my grandmother never did that. She eyeballed everything. That's why her corners never quite met and folks loved them anyway. I had to sit back in my chair and laugh at myself. Sixty years I've been making these blocks and I'm just now hearing what she was telling me all along. She wasn't sloppy, y'all. She was free. I ripped out that block and started over, let the strips run a little crooked on purpose. The Lord's sense of humor, me learning my own craft back to front at 63. Finished it and it feels like her hand is in it too. That's the best a quilt ever feels.

was at an estate sale this weekend, said i was looking at a box of old photographs. just looking. woman running the sale walks over, all friendly, says "oh those are nice, you could cut them up and make something pretty." i stood there holding a picture of someones grandmother and felt genuinely sick for a second. like no, margaret, actually you cant. that's somebody's whole face. that's somebody's whole life in a cardboard box for 3 dollars and i'm supposed to be the one who makes it palatable. she saw my face and laughed. "or not! whatever you artists do." i bought them anyway. all of them. box was 12 bucks. they're on my kitchen table now and i can't touch one without feeling like i owe them something. which is probably why i'm an artist and she sells dead people's lampshades. nothing wrong with that. but don't tell me what to do with a stranger's face like it's craft supplies.

Sold two cyanotypes this month. Each one needed a full day of sun, and a day of sun in Porto in January is a small miracle. I waited eleven days between them just for the light to show up. Fourteen hours of actual exposure time across both, plus the coating, the washing in seawater, the drying, the flat files. €160 for the pair. I worked it out at the kitchen table and it came to about €11 an hour, and that's before the paper and the chemistry. The strange part is I'm not even angry. I set those prices. I've had the same number in my head for three years and not once questioned it. The print is a thing I love making more than anything, so I kept pricing it like a hobby that occasionally pays rent. I'm not raising it to €400 tomorrow. I think I'm going to test €85 per print and see who flinches. Even that feels like lying, which tells me exactly how far I am from a fair number.

Got the email Friday. "Please send a short bio, 50 words max, for the wall label." Sat at the kitchen table for an hour and wrote 340, then cut it to 180, then stared at it and realized every version still opened with the same lie about "exploring memory and loss." So I sent the 340. The woman running the space wrote back in like four minutes: "perfect, I'll trim." And she did, and her version is better. It's just "mixed media on board, found paper, 2024" plus one line about where I live. No grief, no process, no artist statement. Which is fine. It's a wall label, not a eulogy. But I've been annoyed about it for three days and I can't figure out why. I think I've been writing bios for other artists to read, and the only person who reads a wall label is someone standing there with their coat still on. Also her trim left out that the piece is 14 inches wide, and it is very much 14 inches wide.

There was a supply vendor at the fall fair near me and I grabbed a single tube of yellow ochre, the cheap student one, because I was out. Two weeks later it's in every single thing on my table. Sky, the dead grass in the field behind the school, the side of the pear I've repainted four times. My husband asked if I was stuck on it and honestly maybe. Anyway I'm painting the same view off the back porch for the third time because it's what I can see while the kids do homework at the kitchen table. 11x14 canvas board, the cheap stuff, so I don't feel bad about wiping it. The 8 year old says the trees look like broccoli and she's not wrong. I'm not sure the ochre is a phase or just what I needed. But I bought two more tubes so I'm committed now.

Not the rejections, they're grand, you get over them. I mean the one sentence that got in under the skin and stayed there. Mine was a woman in a city gallery about six years back. She looked at a stack of my hare prints for a good long while, then said "these are lovely, but where's the pain in them?" I drove home fuming, giving out yards about it to herself at the kitchen table, and then about a week later I realised she was dead right and I'd been carving safe. Changed how I work entirely. I still don't know whether to thank her or not. So go on, what's yours? Could be a slag, could be a compliment, could be something so odd you couldn't make sense of it for months. The one you caught yourself repeating to other people.