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Sold a 160 x 200 cm painting last week that I painted in 2019. It had been sitting in storage, first at the gallery, then in my studio, then back at the gallery. Five years. The buyer paid €4,800. The gallery takes 50%, so €2,400 to me. Sounds fine until you add up the materials: the Belgian linen, the oil, the cold wax, the pigments, the panels I had built for the stretcher. That's maybe €350 for a painting that size, depending on how many layers I burned through. Then the storage costs, I pay €180 a month for my studio, plus a separate small unit for older work. That painting took up wall space that could have held newer work. Hard to calculate exactly but it's not nothing. So €2,400 minus €350 materials, minus let's say €150 in storage over five years, minus transport to the gallery twice, minus the opening night I stood around drinking bad wine and making conversation. Per hour of actual labour? I don't even want to know. And this is a good outcome. The painting sold. Many don't. I'm not complaining exactly. I knew what I signed up for. But when students ask me about making a living as an artist I don't know what to tell them anymore. The math has never been worse and the rent has never been higher.

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.

A collector bought a large piece in March, a serious one, and then two weeks ago wrote to ask if I'd come paint over the lower left corner because it clashed with a new sofa. I thought it was a joke at first. It wasn't. I said no, obviously, but the thing that stayed with me is how long I even hesitated. There was a beat where I thought, well, it's sold, it's their wall, maybe there's a conversation here. That beat is the part I don't like about myself. Ten years ago I wouldn't have hesitated for a second. I'm realising the market has done something to me that I didn't sign up for. The work gets made to be bought, and somewhere along the way the buyer starts to feel like a client and the painting starts to feel like a commission. Object, service, whatever. And then a stranger asks you to un-paint your own painting and part of you runs the calculation. I told him no, and offered to take it back if he wanted something more neutral. He kept it. But I keep thinking about that hesitation. Has anyone else noticed the line moving? Not the artistic one, the one between what you make and what you owe after they pay for it.

Ok so I need to say this somewhere. I spent almost two hours yesterday filming a reel of a wash going down, and you know what the wash looked like by the time I checked the footage? terrible, because I'd been half-watching my phone propped on a stack of books instead of actually painting it. the paper dried uneven where I lifted the tape early to grab a better angle, and I have a whole sheet now with a big ugly bloom right in the middle of the sky. real painting, ruined, for 11 seconds of video. and the wild part is it got like 200 views. my last actual painting got 2.3k and sold in four days. so what am I even doing. I think what's getting me is that I started this because of the light on my kitchen wall at like 4pm and now I'm learning about hooks and trending audio and I feel so dumb for caring about both at once. like I want people to see the work and also the entire system is built so the only way they see the work is if I become a content person, which is genuinely the opposite of the thing that makes me good at painting. I zone out for three hours and that's the whole point. you can't zone out with a tripod. my partner keeps telling me to just post the painting and let it be boring and I know they're right but there's this voice that's like ok but what if nobody sees it. and then I remember I have 700 followers which is not a business, it's a group chat. so the stakes are kind of imaginary. anyway I'm going to paint today and not film any of it and if the sky blooms I'll keep it. maybe I'll post the wrecked one, honestly it's more interesting than the reel.

I am teaching Mithila painting to a small group in my village, mostly girls, on Sunday mornings in the room where my mother used to sit with her colours. One of them, Sunita, she is fourteen, she has been coming since two years. Very quiet girl, hardly speaking, but her line work is steady, better than some who have been doing longer. Today a lady from Patna who buys from our cooperative took one of her paintings. A small one, two fish and a lotus, on handmade paper, done with the black from lamp soot and the red from kusum flower. Two hundred and fifty rupees. Sunita's mother came to my house in the evening to tell me. She was holding the money folded in her blouse. She did not say much. I also did not say much. The thing is, when I was that age nobody gave us money for this. We painted on the mud walls before the wedding, we painted for the ritual, and that was all. The wall got whitewashed every year and the work went away with it. For long I thought that was the whole of it, that our painting was for the wall and for God and not for selling. I don't know what to feel sometimes. Half of me is happy that the girl has earned something of her own at fourteen. Other half is thinking, will she now paint only the small ones that sell fast, the fish and the peacock, and never learn the whole story of the Kohbar or the wedding of Shiva and Parvati which takes many days. It is a real worry for me. The market wants the easy ones. Anyway. I have told her next month we start the Kohbar, slowly, small portion everyday before she does any selling work. Let us see.

There's a window in my studio, north light, looks out onto the courtyard wall. I've painted it twelve times over the years and I'll paint it again this winter. Same window, same wall. People think this is a lack of imagination. It isn't. It's the opposite. The light behind the courtyard wall changes with the hour and the season and the weather in a way you can't fully hold in your head until you've tried to put it down on canvas and failed. I've failed eleven times. The twelfth was close, so now I'm irritated. My old atelier master used to say a subject isn't finished when you've painted it, it's finished when you've stopped learning from it. I thought that was sentimental at twenty. Now I hang my whole practice on it. Anyway, the light today is doing something particular with the damp on the wall, that grey-green you only get in Lyon in November. I should be at the easel instead of typing this.

Okay so I've been trying to figure out why I'm exhausted at the end of the day but somehow only have like one small painting to show for it. So I started actually timing myself. Set a little timer on my phone every time I sat down, every time I walked away. The result is honestly embarrassing. Over a four hour stretch today I painted for maybe 90 minutes. The rest was: staring at the reference photo, rearranging my brushes, looking at the same wash dry, texting my mom twice, going to get water and then just standing in the kitchen for a while. The actual sitting and committing part is way shorter than I thought it was. The weird thing is the paint time is so much better quality. When I actually clock in, I make decisions so much faster. But the gap between "okay I'm starting" and actually putting paint down is where all the energy goes. My new thing this week is a 25 minute timer, no phone in the room, and I don't get up until it dings. Even if I just sit there. Tried it today and got a whole sketch done in the first two rounds. Anyone else have no idea how much of their studio time is actually fear management? Because I think I'm maybe 40% painter and 60% pacing around thinking about painting.

A collector came to the studio last month, saw an interior I'd finished weeks earlier, wanted it. I named my price, nine hundred euros, which for me is honest but not bold. They said yes immediately. And instead of relief I felt guilty, like I'd overcharged, like I should have said eight hundred if I was being fair. Sit with that for a second. I'm doing a thing I've trained twenty-five years to do, at a price that nets out to about forty euros an hour before materials and studio costs, and the guilt lives in me because they didn't flinch. I keep a ledger of every finished painting, hours, materials, price. It's brutal reading. Nine hundred sounds like real money to people who don't know the hours don't end when I stop painting. The stretching, the varnishing, the framing, the emails, the schlepping. Everyone who pays for the painting pays for approximately one painting's worth of unpaid work around it. I know what the actual answer is. Raise prices until the flinch comes from the other direction. I've added maybe ten percent in three years. I'm scared of the ceiling because I don't know where it is, and the collector who says yes too fast terrifies me more than the one who negotiates. Anyway the painting is gone now and the guilt faded. But I keep thinking about what it would feel like to name a price and not apologise internally for it.

My gallery's new person keeps asking for process content. Behind the scenes, time-lapse, work in progress. I understand the logic, short clips of me scraping back layers get ten times the reach of the finished work. The problem is the work itself. A large painting of mine sits on the wall for weeks between sessions because oil and cold wax needs to cure before I can build the next layer. There is nothing cinematic about watching me wait. I could film myself scraping and smearing and make it look dynamic, but that would be a lie about how it actually happens, and I am not interested in performing a fake version of my own work for the algorithm. I did a ten second reel of the palette knife going through wet wax last week because I felt I had to. It looked great. It is the least honest thing I have done in years. The finished painting, the one that matters, will not be ready until March and nobody will watch it dry. Am I wrong to resist this? Sometimes I think the medium itself is becoming the enemy of the marketing. Then I remind myself I did not spend twenty five years learning to layer oil so I could make satisfying looped videos about it.

ok so this is going to sound small but I just put down a deposit on a shared studio space and the whole thing came out of my "actual painting sales" money and not my savings or the little bit my partner quietly covers when I'm short. Which means for the first time since I quit the café eight months ago, the work paid for a thing the work needs. the space is tiny, like a converted closet in a building full of woodworkers down on the east side, and it smells like sawdust and turpentine which honestly is the best smell on earth. there's a skylight. A SKYLIGHT. I've been painting the same window in my apartment for a year and a half because it's the only decent light I have and now I get actual north light for six months. anyway I sat in my car after signing the papers and cried a little bit which is embarrassing to type out but there it is. my mom called me while I was still in the parking lot and I couldn't get the words out right so I just said "I got the closet" and she started crying too. we're a family of criers, it's a whole thing. the terrifying part is now I have a monthly bill I didn't have last week. but the good terrifying. I think. ask me in march haha

so i mixed up a custom beige for a skin tone study, ran out of canvas, and decided "fuck it" and painted a patch of my landlord's wall to test the value. it's a perfect match. like disturbingly perfect. i stepped back to look at it and i genuinely cannot find it anymore. i know it's there. i've touched it. but my eyes just slide right over it. anyway that's how i found out i'm good at painting the exact most boring color on earth. maybe i should pivot to camouflage for the military instead of whatever i'm doing lol

A student brought in a phone photo of her grandmother's kitchen and asked if she could paint from it. I said of course, but that's not the real question. The real question is why she wanted to. She said because the light in that room doesn't exist anymore, the afternoon sun through the window where her grandmother used to stand. So I told her to go find a room with the same kind of light, sit in it, and paint the memory anyway. The photo gives you the facts. It can't give you the hour you were there. We don't paint what we see. We paint what it was like to see it. That's the whole job and nobody teaches it anymore because you can't put it in a curriculum.

For two days my son has been photographing my paintings for the website. He has made a white cloth, two lamps borrowed from the neighbour, and he is very particular about the angle. Forty paintings he has done. It is good work and I am grateful, because before this we were only selling through the cooperative in Darbhanga and whatever the buyers who came to the house would take. But here is my difficulty. On the screen, my Kohbar and my Durga all look the same size. The line which I pulled for three days with a squirrel-hair brush looks thin like a hair, and the fish which I made the size of my palm looks small like nothing. A painting is not made to be looked at in a small box on a phone. It is made to be sat in front of. He is telling me this is how people buy now, they will not come to Madhubani to see. Maybe he is right. Still I am thinking we should put one photo where he has kept a matchbox beside the painting, just so the person knows. My mother never measured anything in her life and now I am measuring for a machine. If any of you are selling your work this way, kindly tell me one thing. Do you send the actual size, or the person will understand by themselves?

Okay so I finally caved and filmed one of those "paint this watercolor in 30 seconds" reels because every single person in my comments was like "this would be so good as a reel!!!" and the algorithm had basically stopped showing my work to anyone. 4.2k views. My actual finished paintings get like 30-40 likes on a good day. And I just feel weird about it. Like, great, that many people watched paint dry in fast motion. But did a single one of them buy anything? Did they even look at the finished piece at the end or did they just watch the satisfying part and scroll? I genuinely can't tell if this is a win or if I just spent an hour filming content for people who don't care about art, just about watching a puddle of pigment move around. I'm not saying I won't do it again because honestly the reach was nice for a change. But I can't shake the feeling that I'm optimizing for the wrong audience. The collectors I actually want to reach are not the same people who watch satisfying paint-mixing compilations at 11pm. Or maybe they are?? I have no idea. Someone tell me it's not just me feeling this.

People always want the story of the comeback, the artist who stopped and then started again. Nobody wants the part where you spend ten years convincing students they're good enough when you've quietly decided you're not. That's what the fallow decade was for me. I taught portrait drawing at the atelier, competent classes, students who went on to do real work. And every evening I walked home past my own empty studio like it was a room I'd been evicted from. The strangest part is I wasn't blocked. I was just... finished. I'd seen enough mediocre paintings in galleries owned by people who couldn't tell you the difference between burnt sienna and raw umber, and I'd decided the whole enterprise was a bit de classe. What brought me back wasn't inspiration or a muse or any of that nonsense. It was my daughter, aged nine, asking me to paint her hamster that had died. I said no, I don't do pets. She cried. I painted the hamster. It's actually a good little painting, the light on that ridiculous fur, and I've never shown it to anyone. I don't have a lesson in this. Some of us just need a dead hamster to get back to work.

I've been working on this canvas for about six weeks now. 190 x 160. Oil and cold wax. And for the first three or four weeks I was still pushing it, you know, making decisions, applying pressure. Then at some point last week, I don't remember exactly when, the thing started pushing back. It started having its own requirements. I'm not talking about the paint itself leading you, that's something else. I mean the painting developing a kind of internal logic that you either follow or you ruin it. I had a patch of cadmium red deep in the lower left quadrant, maybe the size of my hand, and I kept wanting to extend it, pull it further into the composition. But every time I tried, the whole thing went wrong. The painting didn't want it. Two days ago I finally stopped and just left it where it was, isolated, and the whole canvas breathed again. My gallerist would hate me saying this because it sounds like mysticism. But I've been doing this long enough to trust it. The painting knows what it is before I do. My job is mostly to get out of its way in time. Anyone else have this? The moment where you stop being the author and become more of an editor?

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. 🥲

was at a friend's thing last night and someone I'd met once, twice, whatever, found out I paint. immediately: "oh I have this painting at home you should tell me if it's good." no photo. no artist name. just a vibe check on a thing I can't see. I said sure send it, and they said "I don't have it on my phone" and then just... stood there. like I was supposed to perform clairvoyance. this happens so often. people genuinely think having an art degree (dropped out, don't remind me) means you can divine the quality of any painting ever made from a verbal description. "it's like, abstract, you know?" no. I don't know. that's nothing. I know they mean well but it's the same energy as asking a doctor "my stomach feels weird, is it cancer?" with zero other info. no babe, it's probably not, but also I'm not gonna do a house call for a phantom painting. anyway I think the real answer is I should start pricing these interactions. "that'll be $40 and I'll need a photo within 24 hours or the magic wears off."

Portrait commission, a girl of about nine, and the mother sat with me through the whole sitting. That should have told me. After the third session she looked at the block-in and asked if I could make the nose "less present." I asked what she meant. She meant smaller. Then the chin. Then the eyes, God help me, because the daughter's eyes are slightly asymmetrical and that, apparently, is a flaw and not the whole point of a face. I did the painting my way. She paid, she hung it, she has not called since and I am fine with that. But here is what stays with me. I have painted about sixty commissioned portraits in my life and the requests get stranger every year. Not more difficult, stranger. People are so used to filters on their phones that a face as it is has become an insult. They are not commissioning a portrait anymore, they are commissioning a correction. The thing nobody warns you about is that the correction is the easy part. I can make a nose smaller. That takes twenty minutes and no skill. Making a smaller nose still look like her, still sit in the light the way a real nose sits in the light, that is the work. And if I do it well, the client is happy and the painting is a small lie that will hang on a wall for forty years. So I paint them true and I lose the referral. C'est ça. For anyone here who sells something made by hand: do you give them the thing they asked for, or the thing that is actually good? I have stopped pretending those are the same request.

Something I noticed this winter and I'm still not sure what to do with it. I started photographing my palette at the end of a session, before I clean it. Cadmium orange smeared into raw umber, a ridge of lead white, the whole thing looking like an accident. I put those up because they cost me nothing. Thirty seconds against the north window and voilà. They get roughly four times the engagement of the finished work. Every time. The finished painting is the thing I spent three weeks on. The palette is the residue. And people want the residue. My first reaction was irritation, obviously. But I think I understand it. A finished painting is closed. There is nothing to say about it except "beautiful," and then the conversation is over. A dirty palette is open. People can see the decision in it, they can imagine the hand, they can ask what that green is. It invites them in instead of presenting them with a verdict. Which is uncomfortable for me, because I was trained to believe the painting is the point and everything else is noise. And commercially, the noise sells. I have had two commissions this year that came directly from palette photos. I'm not going to stop posting the work. But I've started painting a little bit for the middle of the process, the ugly stage, the part where it looks like a mistake. That seems to be what people actually want to see. Curious whether this is only my corner of the internet or if it's everywhere.