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Was picking up a new tube of titanium white today and this older gentleman starts chatting me up at the counter. I mentioned I paint in acrylic and he got this look on his face like I'd told him I color with crayons. Said, and I quote, "acrylic is a shortcut, you can just paint over anything and start again. Oil is real painting, watercolor is real painting. You can't hide in those." And I just stood there holding my six dollar tube of paint like a child who got scolded at school. I should have said something. I've been painting for six years, I sell the odd piece, I put in real hours. But I just nodded and paid and left. Here's the thing though. The "you can fix mistakes" argument gets me every time because it makes it sound like the fixing is free. Like I haven't spent whole evenings scraping off a sky that refused to work or layering the same green seven ways until it finally looked like grass instead of swamp. Fixing a mistake in acrylic is still two hours of work, it just doesn't require a respirator and a month of drying time. Anyway. I don't know why this one got to me. Maybe because I'm tired. Maybe because I've heard some version of it a dozen times and it never gets less annoying. My painting is mine and it doesn't need a gatekeeper's blessing. But man, I wish I'd said something smarter than standing there with my mouth shut.

i spent two hours today trying to fix a cut i made in a piece of paper i'd been working on for three days. three days. and the fix is worse than the mistake. now i'm staring at it like if i look long enough the paper will just heal itself. the thing is the mistake part actually looked interesting. but i couldn't leave it alone. had to make it "right." now it's just dead. my studio is a disaster right now. there's a cup that's had tea in it since tuesday. i keep pushing it further away from whatever i'm working on. it's like a territorial thing. the tea and i are in a standoff. anyway. going to sleep on it and probably ruin it more tomorrow.

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.

Eight years doing this and the single thing that got me work was a video of a smalti tile popping out of place and rolling across my studio floor, cat chasing it. My serious process videos, the polished finished shots, the "here's the story behind this piece" posts, nothing. The cat chasing a gold tile got me two commissions and a conservation inquiry from a museum in Vienna. I've stopped trying to figure out the algorithm. It's not a craft, there's no skill to learn, it's just weather. Some days the light hits your post, most days it doesn't. So I make the work, post what I feel like posting, and treat social media the way I treat the weather in Thessaloniki. I don't argue with it, I just dress for it. The people who do well on here spend their whole day on here. I don't have that in me and neither does my back. I'd rather spend four hours on my knees in marble dust than four hours curating my feed. Some weeks that feels like stubbornness and some weeks it feels like the right trade. Mostly it's a wash. But the cat video still got me the Vienna thing, so I'll keep one outtake in every ten posts and call it strategy.

A woman messaged in february about a commission. wanted her mother's house painted, the one the family sold last spring. she sent 40 photos and said "I don't know what I want, just not sad." I quoted 180. gesso and two sheets of stonehenge plus the wash medium ran me 61, and I spent parts of nine evenings on it. so call it 13 an hour. I drove past the house twice to look at it because the photos flattened the porch light and I wanted to get that wrong on purpose, if that makes sense. She cried when I dropped it off, wouldn't let go of my hand for a while. That was worth something and I have no idea how to put it in a column. Here's the part that's actually bothering me. I told myself I priced it low because she was sending me her grief and I don't do that math. But I also priced it low because I was scared that if I said 600 she'd go quiet and I'd have to sit with having asked for it. Those aren't the same thing and I know which one it was. So I'm raising the next one to 450 and I feel sick about it already. Not because I don't think it's worth 450. Because I do, and that's the part I can't get used to.

Getting in is the story everyone tells. I want the other one. Mine: a small space took three pieces from me years back. Contract was a handshake. Then they wanted me to frame the mosaics in these awful gold frames, because "buyers need to see it's art." Mosaics. Gold frames. I said no, they hung them anyway propped against the wall like leftover tiles, and sold one. To this day I don't know if I'm angrier about the frames or the wall. So what's your version? The thing that happened after the yes that made you think, ah, this was not the right door. Or tell me I'm wrong and the gold frames were fine 🙏

First gallery that ever showed me, I walked in with a portfolio of photographs. Nice prints. The owner looked at six of them, put them down, and asked if I had anything in the back of the truck. I didn't. I had driven four hours with nothing but paper. She gave me a show anyway, two years later. But I've never forgotten that she wanted to put her hands on something. Stone doesn't photograph for shit and I should have known it. So what did you actually take in. The piece itself, maquettes, photos, a tablet. And did it matter or did they just want to talk. Asking because I'm putting together a list for a younger guy I know and I don't want to hand him my grudge as advice.

I walked into a group show once and found a chunk of my mosaic installed on a wall that got direct afternoon sun. Full glare, you couldn't see the color at all, just a flat blinding sheet. I stood there wondering if they'd even looked at it before hanging it. The curator meant well, it just never crossed anyone's mind. I said something, politely, and the fix was a curtain in five minutes. But it taught me to ask about light when a space takes my work. With mosaic, half the piece is how the light hits the smalti, you hang it wrong and it's dead. What's the worst way you've seen your work shown in a gallery? Bad light, wrong height, hung next to something that ate it whole? Tell me I'm not the only one who's had to fix it myself.

Sold the last of a hare edition at a market in Kinvara on Saturday and I'm still annoyed about it, and not in the way you'd think. I priced them at €25. Hand-carved, hand-pulled, six weeks of an evenings' work in the block before a single one of them existed. And they went, grand, they went fast, and that's the problem. Fella bought two, told me I was "very reasonable," and I could feel the whole stall behind me wince. Here's the thing I keep doing and I know I keep doing it: I price for the person I'm afraid of. The one who'd look at a print and go "sure I could get a poster for a fiver." I never meet that person. The people who actually buy are the ones who want the thing that took six weeks, and the low price is telling them something about it that isn't true. The ones I've had at €45 sat there a bit longer and then sold to someone who looked at the back of them and asked how the block was cut. Different conversation entirely. Better one. I'm not going to pretend I've solved it. Next market I'll probably do the same thing again because a bad day with nothing sold is worse than a bad price. But I've a hedgerow block on the press at the moment and I've decided that one starts at €45 and I'll sit on my hands. Anyway. If you're a maker, what's the number you're afraid to say out loud? Mine was 45 for a long time and it's a stupid thing to be afraid of.

Swedish winter light is weak, so I put a full sheet of endpapers on the sill to see the grain better while I decided what to do with it. It was a deep green, the kind you only get in old books before the dye got cheap. Two weeks of low grey light. That was enough. The middle went the colour of weak tea and the edges stayed dark, so now it looks like something owned by a smoker. My fault, and I knew better. I have cut it down to about a quarter of the original for a piece I am working on, which is fine, but I keep looking at the offcuts thinking they are the better part. There is likely a lesson about hoarding and light in there and I'm not going to say it. What I actually want to know is whether anyone here has a system for deciding how much of a ruined sheet to keep. Mine is: keep all of it, forever, and be annoyed about it later.

Thirty-five years in and I still priced a job wrong last fall. Memorial piece for a family, granite, their father's hands resting on a book. I quoted by weight because that's how I buy the stone, so it made sense in my head at the time. Fifteen hundred for the material and rough shaping. Took me six weeks. The hands alone ate three of them. Every pass of the chisel I was thinking about how those were the hands that held their kids, and I couldn't rush it. By the time I'd finished the base and the lettering I'd logged close to two hundred hours. Two hundred hours for fifteen hundred dollars. Eight bucks an hour and that's before the shop lights were on. I told the daughter what it should have cost after she picked it up. She didn't care, she was happy with the piece, paid me extra out of nowhere because she said I undersold myself. That somehow made it worse. I keep a logbook of every job with hours against what I charged. That one's going to sit there for a long time reminding me that I priced labor like it was gravel.

Every piece of limestone I carve ends up the same way. I pick the block, map out the form, rough it in right, and then about halfway through I start chasing the vein. There's always this one line of darker stone running through it and I keep trying to work with it, shape around it, make it mean something. It never works. The piece ends up looking like I fought the material instead of the material and me agreeing on something. I did it again this week on a 200 pound piece of Indiana limestone and I knew better the whole time. I told my old mentor about it once. He just looked at me and said the vein isn't the problem, you are. I've been chewing on that for fifteen years and I still don't know if he meant I should stop trying to feature it or stop pretending I can ignore it. Maybe it's the same thing. Anyone else got a habit that keeps repeating even though you know exactly what you're doing when you do it?

so my first real gallery, i just walked in. no email, no appointment, just showed up with a tote bag of small pieces like a guy delivering pizzas. the person at the desk looked at me like i'd walked in off the street, which... i had. but they were bored and said sure, show me. ended up in a group show with two pieces and zero sales. still counts. anyway i've never figured out which is right. email feels like sending your art into the void and waiting for the void to ghost you. walking in feels insane but at least it's a person. i've done both and honestly the walk-in got me further, which is either inspiring or deeply bleak. so which one are you, and did it work? email first or just show up. and if you emailed, what did you even say, mine always turn into a cover letter that i hate by line three.

Started a new piece this morning. Torn paper, charcoal, and I had this idea about a house I barely remember from childhood. You know, the kind where you can picture the front door but not the windows. Two hours in and I'm staring at this orange painter's tape I used to block out a section, and it's not coming off without pulling up half the paper. I know this. I knew this before I put it down. Every single time. I keep a roll of that cheap masking tape for exactly this and I still grabbed the orange one because it was closer. So now the composition has a permanent orange stripe that's going to peek through the charcoal no matter what I do. Either I lean into it or I scrap the whole thing. Leaning in seems less wasteful. The house doesn't matter anymore anyway. The tape is the piece now. That's usually how it goes. My best stuff is never the thing I sat down to make.

I have this thing where I can't email a gallery to save my life. I rewrite everything ten times and then never send it. But walking in? I did that once, with a small pastel portfolio, and I'm pretty sure the woman at the desk thought I was selling something. She was polite but clearly confused about why a stranger was holding pastel drawings at her counter. Nothing came of it. I left so red I couldn't look at my own work for a week. I still don't know if that's the brave way or the unprofessional way. So tell me honestly, has anyone actually landed something by walking in cold? Or is email really the only door that opens?

I've been setting a small panel for three weeks now, roughly 22 by 30, a figure half turned away. Not saying more than that. The problem is one section of red smalti in the drapery. I cut it, laid it, and the transitions are exactly what I planned. Every tesserae sits where I wanted it. It is the best-executed passage of red I have made in years and it is completely dead. I have been looking at it from across the room for four days. From there it reads like a photograph of drapery, which is the worst thing I can say about mosaic. The hand is gone. No gaps, no small errors, no slight wrongness that tells you a person sat on the floor placing these. I smoothed it out of existence. I know what I have to do. Rip out about forty pieces from the middle of it and set them badly on purpose. Deliberately. Wrong sizes, a couple of them turned a few degrees off the flow, one piece of a different red that is almost but not quite the same, so the eye catches on it and moves. Not chaos. A few honest mistakes that I am going to have to manufacture. The strange part is I spent years training out those mistakes. Conservation teaches you to blend, to match, to disappear. Then you go make your own work and you spend the rest of your life trying to be visible again. Tomorrow I take the chisel to a section that took me two days. Anyone else set something too well and had to wreck it back to life?

I spent yesterday going through the last month's failed prints instead of making new ones. Lined them all up on the long table in the studio, maybe thirty of them. Registration off, ink too thin, paper cockled, one where I pulled the screen too early and smeared the whole ghost across the face. The strange thing is, lined up like that, they look like a series. Coherent, almost intentional. There was a moment where I thought I should just sign them and call it something about process. I didn't. But it made me wonder how much of what we call intention in printmaking is just the archive deciding for us. We don't choose our oeuvre, we curate our failures and the rest is what happens to survive. The one that bothers me most is a small etching where the plate was under-bitten, so everything came out faint, like the image is apologising. I keep coming back to it. Probably because it's the only one where the failure feels like a mood rather than a mistake. Anyway. The table is clean again. I'll make new mistakes tomorrow.

Got a limestone reclining figure, about three feet, been on it for two months. Undercut the shoulder too deep last week. Meant a soft turn there, and instead there's a shadow line you could fit a finger into. Stepped back and for a day I thought I'd ruined it. Then I stopped looking at what I meant and looked at what was actually there. The piece shifted. Shoulder's gone, but now the head carries the whole weight and the body reads as something laid down differently than I planned. It's not what I drew. It might be better. Not sure yet. That's the whole job right there, knowing when a mistake is a mistake and when it's the piece telling you something. I've killed more work by forcing it back to the drawing than I ever lost by following it. But it's hard to trust, especially after that much time into one block. Anyone else got a piece that turned because you cut wrong and let it stay wrong?

The edition is 12 and I have been at the same zinc plate since Thursday. The image is fine. The problem is that I keep pulling proofs to check the bite and then keeping the ones that are "nice", and now I have eleven nice prints and no idea which one is the print. My printer friend says this is the whole point of an edition, that the multiplicity is the work, the small differences are the variable. I know the theory. I have read the theory. I have even written about the theory. But at 1am in the studio with a fan going and my hands black to the wrist, the theory feels like something I say to other people. In practice I am standing there choosing between eleven nearly identical sheets like a woman picking tomatoes, and every one of them is a little bit wrong in a different place. The third one has a softer edge on the left where the felt slipped. The eleventh has a cleaner line and less atmosphere. I like the third. I should not like the third, because liking the third is liking a mistake, and then what do I do, print eleven more mistakes on purpose? I am also aware, and this is the part that actually bothers me, that if I frame the third one and call it the definitive state, it becomes the original, and the other ten become copies of it, and I have spent eleven years arguing that this is a lie.

Kept a lemon on my windowsill and painted it three times, same light through the morning, same canvas size. First two are correct. The form is right, the color is honest, the drawing is fine. And they're dead. The third one has a shadow edge I let stay softer than it should be and a highlight slightly too pale, and suddenly there's air in it. I've been thinking about that all week. My students keep coming to me with work that is technically right and soulless, and I keep saying things like push the values, trust your eye, and then I go do the same wrongness-correct thing myself and catch it only on attempt three. The problem isn't that the first two have mistakes. The problem is they have no mistakes. A painting needs at least one deliberate wrongness in it, one place where the truth submits to what the paint wants. Where do you each keep yours? I mean that seriously, not as a trick. Name the spot in your own work where you lie on purpose and it works.