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so the full-time artist life is going great except for the part where I have no money for models, which is the part where I decided to paint my own hand three times this week instead. three separate studies of my left hand holding a mug, holding a paintbrush, just resting. hands are SO hard. I've drawn them a hundred times and they still come out wrong every single time and honestly it's humbling in the best way. but here's the thing. my left hand is the one that's held like every mug I've ever drunk coffee out of, the one I use to prop my face up when I'm reading, the one my partner holds when we walk anywhere. I've been so focused on getting the anatomy right I didn't notice I was documenting my whole life. study number three is my hand resting on the windowsill at golden hour and it's genuinely the best thing I've painted all month, and it's just... my hand. my boring left hand that does nothing special. anyway I'm framing it. it goes above my desk where I'll see it every day and be reminded that the most ordinary thing about me is worth painting slowly. which is a weirdly emotional takeaway for something born out of being too broke to hire a model, but here we are haha. who else has painted themselves out of necessity and accidentally made their favorite work? I can't be the only one

Stopped mid-pose today and just stared at the model's hands. She wasn't doing anything, just sitting, hands resting on her knees. And I couldn't draw them. I kept putting charcoal down and erasing, down and erasing. Fifty minutes of that. Finally she asked if I needed a break and I said no, I'm fine, I just forgot how to see for a second. She laughed. The whole room laughing at my crisis. Then I turned the paper sideways and drew the hands as abstract shapes, not hands. Just dark masses and the light where the skin folded. It worked. It's the best drawing I've made in a month. I don't know why I keep needing to be reminded that the answer is almost always to stop naming what I'm looking at. The second I called them "hands" they became a problem. The second I called them "dark shapes against light" they were just true. Anyway. Tonight I'm in love with that drawing and tomorrow I might hate it. The usual.

She's been posing for me for months, always so composed, holds a pose like stone. Yesterday she just started crying mid-session. Didn't move, didn't wipe her face, just let it run while I kept drawing. And I kept drawing. That felt wrong at first, like I should've stopped and checked on her. But she didn't want that. She wanted someone to just see her like that and not flinch. When we finished she said "thank you for not asking." I think that's the most honest exchange I've had in the studio all year. We're so trained to fix people's pain the second it shows up. Sometimes the thing is just being witnessed. Anyway the drawing is the best one I've done in months. Faces and feelings, man. That's the whole job.

Two hours sitting in the studio with the easel set, the north light lovely after the rain, and a text at 10h15 saying she had "a thing." That is the word. A thing. I paid her the 60 anyway because I'm not going to be the person who punishes a twenty-four year old for having a life. But I want to say out loud that a figure session is not a shift you can drop. I had the whole morning planned around the turn of her shoulder against the window, I'd mixed the ground for it Tuesday, and now I have a half-toned canvas and a free afternoon I didn't ask for. The problem is not the money. It's that I can feel myself already planning the next one around the possibility that it won't happen. That is a very bad way to make a painting.

Trying to finish the left hand of a seated figure, the one that rests on the knee, and I have wiped it out three mornings in a row. Not the whole painting, just that hand, probably four centimeters of canvas. This morning I got the thumb right and then spent two hours ruining the palm around it trying to get the light to turn across the knuckles. There is a particular flush you get across the back of a hand when it is resting on something, a red that goes almost purple where the skin is thin, and every time I mix it I get closer and then I lean in and it is suddenly a bruise. Wiped it out with a rag at noon, no regret. My model comes Thursday and she will sit with the same hand on the same knee and I will have nothing to show for it. Some days the craft is not the paint, it is just the willingness to start the same small thing again. Anyway. Back in there.

Two months of roses hips on my studio windowsill, and every single one split or went soft before I could finish a study. Then last week I found one that had dried perfectly, hard and whole, the color deepened to that dark burnt umber the hips take on in January. It held its shape through the whole painting, all six hours, and it let me catch the way the calyx twists at the very tip. Small victory, but I've been chasing it since October. There is something satisfying about a specimen that cooperates. The paint is hard enough without the subject fighting you. Anyway, it's framed on the studio shelf now, and the hip sits beside it like a little model for its own portrait. I almost don't want to compost it.

I just finished an edition of 25 screenprints that took me four months from the first drawing to the last pull. Copper plates, inks, paper, the studio time, the proofs I rejected along the way. Sold the whole edition to a gallery for €900, which sounds fine until you do the real math and realize the materials alone were close to half that, and the gallery takes 50% on top. So I made 25 objects by hand and I think I netted something like €6 an hour. The gallery is happy. The collector is happy. I'm the only one who knows the number. The part I keep turning over is that I priced it like a print. Like the edition makes it cheap, because it's a multiple, because the original is the plate and the prints are just copies of it. But each one of those copies took my hands on it. That logic is from an old world where printmaking was a reproduction tool, not a primary medium. I keep selling work on a pricing model that was built for something printmaking no longer is, and I don't know if I'm too scared to break it or just can't figure out what the new number should be. I raised the price on the next edition by €300 and I'm already scared nobody takes it.

There is a man at the Sunday market who has now, three weeks running, come over to my stall just to tell me I'm drying my prints wrong. Not buying. Not asking. Just stopping to inform me that the washing line arrangement is inefficient and I should be using a proper rack with clips, the kind he uses for his own hobby, which is model trains. I stood there holding a sheet of paper that had been soaked in the Atlantic and left in the sun for eight hours and this man wanted to teach me about clips. The thing is, I smiled and nodded. I always do. I nod and let them talk and it costs me nothing and I hate that I do it, I hate the politeness of it, I hate that my mother raised me to be accommodating to men who have opinions about my craft that they arrived at without ever once doing it. I didn't say that the line is how it's done, that the clothesline is part of the process, that the paper curling in the salt wind is the whole point. I just said "hm" and handed his change back. I have been thinking about it all week. Not the man. The nod.

I have a flat hog brush, maybe fifteen years old now. The ferrule is loose, the handle has a crack running through it where I must have left it in solvent too long once, and the bristles are worn down to almost half their original length. It's useless for any kind of clean stroke. But I keep it because it does something no new brush can do, it leaves a mark that's broken, a little ragged, like the paint itself is hesitating. I've tried to buy the same model new. It doesn't work the same way. A new brush is too polite. This happens with tools, but also with the way you work. You develop habits that are actually just wear patterns, and then you mistake them for technique. I don't know if that's a problem or just how it goes.

A woman came to the studio last week about a portrait of her father, from two photographs, one of them badly shot in a kitchen with a flash. I said 900 for the head, and she did not blink, and I spent the rest of the visit feeling like I had cheated her and like I had undersold myself, at the same time, which is a stupid way to spend an afternoon. The sitting itself is three hours. The rest is not. I count maybe eighteen, twenty hours in a head, more when the photographs are bad, and out of the 900 comes the canvas, the ground, the medium, the model fee if they sit for me, the framing if they want my framer. It comes out near 30 euros an hour on a good one. I know painters in Lyon who get 60 for a copy of a photograph and sleep fine. So it is not the number that troubles me. It is that I cannot say it without a small apology in the voice. I hear it. I have started writing the price on the back of a card and handing it over instead, which is cowardly but it works, and the card never apologizes. For the record, 1,200 is the price I think it should be, and I have been telling myself that for two years.

I wiped the same forearm four times this morning. Not the whole figure, just the forearm, from the elbow to the wrist, and each time it came back slightly worse than the one before it. The problem is the light in the studio changed between Tuesday and today. Nothing dramatic, just that grey February light of Lyon that has no opinion about anything, and now the arm I painted on Tuesday looks like it belongs to a different room. So I scrape it down and try again and it is still wrong. At the fourth attempt I realised I was painting the memory of Tuesday's arm instead of the one in front of me. Very humbling. The model comes back Thursday. I will probably do a fifth. Voilà. In the meantime I am looking at a corner of the canvas I am actually happy with, a bit of the shirt collar, and pretending the rest of it does not exist.

I spent the morning on a specimen of Daucus carota, the wild carrot, and I have made a rather basic error that I would flag to a student in a heartbeat. The root is a taproot, and the way it sits in the soil gives you a clear top and underside. I set the drawing up from a photograph I took in September, and photographs will lie to you about which surface is catching the light. So I have a root with the anatomy of the underside and the shading of the top. Every secondary rootlet is in the right place, the modelling is clean, and the whole thing reads as slightly wrong in a way that is hard to name and impossible to unsee now that I have named it. The frustrating part is that the drawing itself is probably the best line work I have done this month. I am going to have to take it off the paper and start again, which is three days of drawing I will not get back. I keep a rule that I do not begin colour on anything I have not drawn from life. I broke it for one photograph and here we are. I am writing this down mostly so that I do not do it again next week.

i had a gallery tell me once that the "standard model" was a $500 fee for a group show, plus they took 40% of anything that sold. i laughed because i thought they were joking. they weren't. i walked. but i've heard enough people say they paid it that i wonder if i was the idiot or they were. anyone else run into pay-to-play? did you ever do it, and was it ever worth it?

finally got my grandmother to sit still long enough to make a plaster mold of her hands. she's 82, her hands are doing that thing where the skin is thin and the veins show through and they just know so much, how to hold a spoon, how to pat your arm, how to roll a cigarette one-handed. she was so confused why I wanted to do it. "mateo, they're old hands, get a young model" but I kept telling her these are exactly the ones I want. she laughed the whole time the plaster was setting. said I looked more nervous than she was. pulled the mold off and it came out clean. no air bubbles, no cracks. I think she was a little proud even if she won't say it. now I have to figure out what to do with them, maybe cast in porcelain and let light come through thin. or maybe just leave them raw plaster for a while and look at them every day. felt like I caught something real today. not sure I've ever made anything that mattered this much.

I had a piece in a group show last spring. Small gallery, decent neighborhood foot traffic. They took 40% commission. That's fine, I know the deal, rent's real. But I also had to pay for my own framing. Print the postcards myself. Supply the wine for the opening. They asked if I could "activate my network" on social and tag them in stories every day leading up to it. So I'm paying to make the work, paying to present it, doing their marketing for them, and they take 40% of whatever sells. And I walked away thinking I was lucky to be there. I don't have a tidy conclusion. I'm still trying to figure out which part of this is normal and which part is getting played. Because I keep hearing about how the model is broken for artists but I don't see a lot of alternatives that aren't just "go viral on tiktok" which is its own kind of nonsense.

Twenty-two years. Bought it for a job welding railing on a third-floor deck and figured it'd last maybe five. Today it started smoking and the bearing noise went from bad to wrong. I took it apart and the armature is cooked. Nothing to do but retire it. I'm annoyed at myself for being sentimental about a power tool. But that thing carved every piece of steel I've made for two decades. The switch got taped up about eight years ago and I got so used to jamming it with my thumb just right I never bothered to replace it. New one's already ordered. Same model. I'll probably hate it for a year until it breaks in.

Working on a half-length figure, a woman seated by a window, left forearm resting on the table. Everything else is behaving. The forearm is not. Four times now. Each time I scrape it back, the drawing is fine, the value is fine, and then I go in with the half tones and it goes waxy. Like the skin of a mannequin. I know exactly what I'm doing wrong by the third pass and I do it anyway, because the correct version looks wrong to me at that moment, and so I chase the wrong thing until it dries enough to punish me. What is left on the palette is a grey I mixed at eleven this morning for the shadow side and it is perfect. I keep looking at it. Small mound of it, cool, a little violet in it, mixed with lead white and raw umber and something I've already forgotten. That grey is the only thing in the studio that has any idea what it's doing today. Anyway the light has gone. Not looking for advice, I know what the problem is. Just saying it out loud so I stop pretending it's the model's arm and not mine.

I've been teaching a beginner figure class this term and I keep noticing the same thing. The students who are terrified make the most honest drawings. The ones who think they already know how to draw are the ones I have to undo. There was a moment today, a woman in her fifties, first time ever holding a charcoal stick, and she got the weight of the model's shoulder better than half my advanced students would. She had no idea what she'd done. I didn't tell her, just let her keep going. Some things are better if you don't name them too early. I've been at this long enough to know that skill is not the enemy. But there's a confidence that comes before competence that is the real obstacle. Hard to teach around that. You can't ask someone to unlearn their own certainty.

My old Makita 4.5 inch finally seized up this morning. Smoke out of the vents, bearings shot. I've had that thing since 1998. Twenty-six years of abuse, welded it back together twice myself, and it outlived two cheap replacements I bought "as backups." Went to order a new one and found myself staring at the same model, still in the lineup, sixty bucks. I closed the tab. Not sure why. I can afford it. But there's something about buying a clone of the exact tool that just died for you. Feels like I'm pretending the old one never happened. Like I'm supposed to just slot a new one in and pretend nothing changed. I'll probably cave by Friday when I need to cut steel and the hand grinder I've got left is a corded piece of junk that vibrates your wrists numb. But for now I'm just letting it sit. Anyone else ever got weird about retiring a tool that's still in production? Or is this just the sentiment of a man who's spent too many hours in a dusty room.

My old drill died last week. Twenty years of screwing together salvaged frames, brackets, whatever held a room up. I bought the same model, same brand, but it has a different sound. Higher pitch. The old one grumbled, this one whines. And I realized the sound was in my head too. Every time I drilled that old one I knew exactly where the resistance was, when to ease off, how it felt before wood split. The new one tells me nothing. I'm working blind on something I've done a thousand times. It's not about the drill. It's that the small tools become part of you and you don't notice until one dies. The same thing happens with materials. A room of found objects I've built five times, then suddenly the objects are different, the grammar is gone, and I'm a beginner again. Middle age is just losing your tools one at a time and pretending it doesn't matter. Anyway. The hinge post in here reminded me. We blame the hinge, but it was never the hinge.