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So for about a year I was making these short videos, nothing fancy, just my phone propped against a grout bucket while I cut smalti or set tesserae. No music, no voiceover, just the sound of the hammer and the tile nippers. Sometimes ten seconds. Sometimes two minutes. I posted them because I liked the rhythm of them, but they'd get maybe 40 views. I kept doing it anyway because I'm stubborn and I had the footage. Last month a journalist from a design magazine in London was researching mosaic technique for an article on craft revival. She found my videos. Not my finished pieces, the raw ones, the ones nobody watched. She said they showed the actual process in a way her readers never see. So now there's a four-page spread about my work and I got paid for the photos and she quoted me saying nice things about patience and it's lovely. But the thing is, the algorithm was right. Those videos were dead content by every metric. They just happened to be exactly what one specific person needed on one specific day in another country. I don't know what the lesson is. Maybe that "what works" is sometimes just persistence aimed at nobody until the right somebody shows up. Or maybe it's luck dressed up as strategy. I can't tell yet.

Been humidifying the same page for four days. Blotter, Gore-Tex, weights, the whole slow ritual. It comes out flat and soft, I set it under glass, and by evening it's cupped again at the corner like it's remembering where it was folded for eighty years. I know the answer. More time. Less heat. Patience I don't have this week. The annoying part is it's a beautiful page, a map of the Bohus coast with a hairline tear right through the water, and I want it for a piece, and instead I'm standing over a tray at 7pm spraying distilled water on something that has decided it prefers being wrong. Conservators keep telling me paper has a memory. Mine is holding a grudge.

The buyer was from Patna, a gentleman who came to the house with his brother. He saw one Kohbar painting, the one with the bamboo grove and the lotus pond, and he liked it very much. I said 3,500 rupees. He paid without any bargain at all, which should have told me something. Then afterward I did the full sum on paper, because my wife asked me straight how many days it took. Eleven days. Not full days, mind, but mornings and evenings, and the paper and brushes and the natural colours also have cost. The black from soot, the yellow from turmeric, the red I make from kusum flower and it takes one full day just for that grinding. So when I put the paper cost and the colour making and eleven days together, it came to something like 180 rupees for one day of work. My wife said nothing. She only looked at me. That was worse than if she had said something. And still I am not able to raise the price, this is my difficulty. In my area people will say, why so much for a painting on paper, my cousin's daughter also does this. The cooperative also gives a fixed rate which is old rate only. And I am afraid if I say 6,000 then the gentleman will go quietly to somebody else and I will never know. Now I am thinking to keep one painting aside and not sell it, only to see what price it can get if I wait. Has anybody here done this waiting business successfully? For me patience is there but the house expenses are also there, both things are pulling.

We talk a lot about the obvious red flags, the ones that wave themselves at you. But I've been thinking about the opposite: the gallery that looked right, felt right, you trusted them, and then somewhere along the way it quietly fell apart. I had one a few years ago. A small space near the river, the owner understood the work, she talked about light and patience and I thought, finally. The show went well. Then she started postponing the payout. Just a week, then another, then a month. Always a warm excuse, always a promise. I let it go because I liked her, because the first impression was so good. I ended up waiting almost five months. What about you, the gallery that seemed perfect and then showed you otherwise? What was the first crack?

I sent a portfolio to a Munich gallery once, the kind of place I really wanted. Nothing. Eighteen months later the director calls out of nowhere, says she's been "sitting with it," asks me to bring work in. No apology, no explanation, like the delay was part of the process. I went. And it was fine, actually. But it made me think about how much of this business runs on silence and how we all just accept it. What's the longest a gallery has made you wait, and did you still take the meeting? There's a line between patience and being a doormat, and I still don't know exactly where mine is.

Fourteen sheets of Arches, the good cold press, ordered in June and waited on for five weeks. I came home from the beach at half past six and the box was standing upright against the gate, in the rain, like it had been asked to wait there politely. The cardboard was so soft it opened with two fingers. The paper inside is not ruined exactly. That is the maddening part. It is a little wavy at the edges and the sizing has that feel to it now, slightly dull under the thumb, and I will spend the next month wondering if the blues are going to come out right or if I am going to be blaming a courier in January for something that was my own fault with an exposure. I did not shout at anyone. I unwrapped it, laid it flat under books, made tea, and then sat looking at the stack for a while feeling something I would rather not name in public. My partner said well, at least it is only paper. He is a good man and he meant it kindly and I have not spoken to him since. Anyway. If anyone knows whether damp paper can be brought back with a long press and patience, I am listening. If not, I am going to keep pressing it and pretending.

Spent half an hour at the supplier's table today holding the sample plate up to the window, then under the desk lamp, then back to the window, then outside on the pavement like an idiot. Kept saying to the man the blue is too green. He kept saying it is the same blue as last time. It was not the same blue as last time. Ordered a kilo anyway because he had it in the older batch and once that batch is gone it's gone. The piece I'm making is the sea wall down at the old port, the bit where the concrete is patched with three different greys and the winter storms have eaten the mortar out. I have been collecting blues for it since March. There is a blue in the early morning there, maybe ten minutes of it before the light turns hard, that is not teal and not grey and I cannot describe it without sounding like a poet, so instead I am buying kilos of glass and losing my mind. Everyone thinks this job is about patience. Actually it is mostly about this. Standing in a shop arguing about whether a colour exists. Anyway. The kilo cost more than I'll get for the panel. I know. Don't.

Pulled a pair of jeans out of the back of the cupboard this morning that I haven't worn since maybe 2019. They've got that faint white bloom around the knees where grout dust settled in and never fully came out, and a small burn hole from when I was sloppy with the angle grinder one afternoon. Honestly they're the best thing I own right now. Every new pair is just cloth until something happens to it. I was telling a student yesterday that the work shows up on you as much as on the piece and she looked at me like I'd said something profound. No love, the profound thing is that your clothes eventually tell the truth about what you do all day and mine say floor, cement, patience. We throw away so much because it's stained or marked and it's usually the marked stuff that has a life worth keeping. Anyway. Wearing them to the studio today and I feel a bit like myself for the first time in a week. Small victories. Throwing a scrap of sea-green smalti in the pocket to keep them honest. 🙂

Started a thing back in January where I decided to paint the window in my studio apartment every single week until I got it right. The one good window, faces this ugly courtyard with a fire escape and one tree that's half dead but tries anyway in spring. 11 paintings in now and honestly? The 9th one is the winner and I didn't even know it when I made it. I painted it on a day I was furious about a commission going sideways and I did the whole thing in like 40 minutes without thinking, and it's got this looseness the other ten are choking for. The careful ones all look like I was holding my breath. The angry one breathes. Makes me want to throw out everything I've learned about patience honestly. Or at least stop treating every wash like it's a final exam. Anyway the window has now become a whole series and I don't know what to do with the other ten. They're fine. They're just... fine. Stiff. Like me at a party. Does anyone else have that piece where the version you made in a bad mood or a hurry is better than the one you actually tried on? I need to know I'm not alone here because I'm about to start 12 and I'm scared she's gonna be a stiff one too haha

Had a new student yesterday, first day, and she walks in and says "how do you breathe in here?" I told her open a window, and anyway we're only in oils two days a week, the rest is drawing. She looked at the rack of drying canvases like they were going to get her. I remember being that age and convinced the fumes would rot my brain. Now I've painted in studios that smelled of turpentine for thirty years and honestly the only thing that's happened is I can't stand the smell of fresh linen. Priorities shift. But it made me think about how we guard the young ones. My atelier master smoked a pipe while he ground his own lead white. We've come a long way from that and I'm glad. Still, there's something in me that misses the old seriousness about materials, the ritual of it. These days everyone wants water-soluble oils and quick-dry mediums and I get it, I really do, but paint takes the time it takes. You can't fix patience with a product.

Mine was a show of patience. Also desperation. 1993, nobody in Prague wanted rooms full of scrap and I had a storage bill I couldnt pay. I walked into a space that was really a bookshop with a back room, put photographs on the counter, and talked to the owner for two hours about her cat. She gave me a month. I slept in the storage room behind my own work for three of those weeks. No strategy in it. Pure circumstance and stubbornness. How did yours happen? Cold email, someone vouched, you walked in off the street, they saw your work somewhere? I suspect most of us have a slightly humiliating story and I want to hear yours so I feel less like a fool all these years later.

Left my cyanotype wash tank sitting for three weeks because I kept telling myself I'd get to it, and when I finally opened it the chemistry had settled into these distinct strata. Blue on top, pale haze underneath, a few flecks of paper lint drifting slow like they were suspended mid-thought. I nearly just drained it. But I stirred it once out of curiosity and honestly the gradient it made on the side of the jar was more beautiful than half the prints I've made this month. So now I'm sitting here with a broken rule of mine not to photograph the process, because I want to remember that even the neglect has something to say. The sea does this too, if you look where the waves turn back. Layers. Somebody tell me I'm not the only one who keeps almost-useful tanks of half-dead chemistry around out of sentiment. My partner says it's hoarding. I say it's patience with no deadline.

Went to restock on Arches paper today, expensive enough that I have to talk myself into it every time, and the guy ringing me up sees the blocks and goes "oh wow, you're brave, I could never do watercolor, too stressful, I don't have the patience." And I just stood there with my debit card out like 🙂 ok. Because what do you even say to that? It's not the first time I've heard it and it's always framed like I'm doing something weird and self-punishing instead of just... painting. Like it's some extreme sport. I don't go to the oil painting aisle and tell people they're brave for waiting three days for paint to dry. I know he meant it kindly. I know. But I'm so tired of watercolor being treated like the masochist's hobby when it's literally just the medium I fell in love with. Nobody tells a guitarist they're brave for playing acoustic. Anyway I bought the paper and went home and painted the same window I've painted forty times and it still came out wrong so maybe he had a point honestly

This morning I made fresh gum from tamarind seeds for binding the colours. Soaking, peeling the thin brown skin, grinding the white kernel into paste. My mother used to do this and her mother before. When I was small I would sit and watch her, the slow grinding stone, the patience. Now my own hands do it and I think: this is the same gesture, passing down. We have readymade binder available in the market now, many artists use it. But for me the natural gum feels like part of the painting itself. The colour holds different. More alive maybe. Or maybe just I am old fashioned. 🙂 The kitchen smelled slightly sour this morning from the soaking. My wife said "again you are doing this Ramesh, the vessels will all get stained." But she knows. She left the mortar out for me. Anyone else here still make their own materials? Or am I the only one who cannot let go of these old ways.

I was digging through the closet looking for my good brushes, the ones I hide from the kids, and I pulled out this canvas I'd completely forgotten about. A little barn scene I started in a workshop back in 2021 and then gave up on because I couldn't get the shadows right on the roof. I sat there holding it for a minute, and I could see exactly what I was doing wrong back then. So I mixed up some Payne's grey and burnt umber and fixed it in about ten minutes. Ten minutes! Three years of sitting in a dark closet and it just needed a little patience and a better eye. Felt weirdly nice. Like giving past-me a hand. Anyone else ever rescue an old abandoned piece?

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.

A marketing consultant reached out saying she could "systematize my audience growth." I told her I don't have an audience, I have maybe 400 people who care about industrial salvage installations in Prague. She said that's exactly the problem. So for a month I let her try. She had me post on a schedule, use certain words, track when people engaged most. I did it. Numbers went up slightly. Total new people who actually came to a studio visit or wrote something that showed they understood what I'm doing: zero. The thing is my work takes six weeks to build and you walk through it in ten minutes. You can't optimize that. You can't gamify someone standing in a room full of old factory parts and feeling something. I told her I think the disconnect was that my work is slow and her job is to make things fast. She said I was being resistant. She wasn't wrong. But neither was I. I don't know what the proper social media strategy is for work that takes months and asks for patience. Maybe there isn't one. Maybe the answer is just keep making the rooms and the people who need to find them eventually will.

Every morning I light the diya near my work table before I sit down. Not for show. The soot that gathers on the clay saucer, I wipe it with my finger and keep it in an old Horlicks jar, the glass one with the yellow lid. My daughter saw this and said, Amma, why you are storing dirt, we can buy black colour from the shop, it is only sixty rupees. She is not wrong about the shop. But that soot black is different. It sits on the paper like something alive, and when I mix it with a little gum arabic and water it takes three days to settle properly, and if I use it too early the whole line goes grey and dull. Sixty rupees black will not teach you patience. This one will. Today I am filling in the fine cross hatching on a Kohbar panel, the chamber of the newly married ones, and it is slow work with a brush of two squirrel hairs. My hand starts shaking after one hour now. It did not use to. So I stop, drink tea, come back. The panel will take me maybe eleven days at this rate. Some of the younger girls I teach want to finish a whole painting in one sitting. I tell them the soot will not allow it. They laugh. Then they try. Anyway the jar is nearly full and I have no second jar, so I must decide what to do. Any of you keep something like this, some leftover from your own process that you cannot throw and cannot quite explain?

I have been trying to paint a good English oak acorn since 2012 and I finally finished one that doesn't embarrass me. The trouble has never been the acorn itself. It is the cupule, the scaly cap. Every botanical artist who attempts it for real discovers that each scale is a tiny overlapping structure with its own highlight, and if you render every one faithfully it becomes a texture map, not a drawing. If you simplify, you lose the species. Quercus robur has those small, flat, appressed scales and there is no forgiving shortcut to them. The breakthrough was embarrassingly simple. I stopped painting scales and started painting light across scales. One wash for the form, then a dry brush that followed the contour instead of the individual scale edges, and let the paper do the rest. Thirteen years on the same subject is a strange thing to be proud of, but there is something to be said for the version of patience that keeps returning to the same fruit because you know you have not quite met it yet. I matted it this afternoon and it is hanging in my studio where I have to look at it. It can withstand that now.

Decided this week I'd start painting at six, before the light gets ugly and the phone starts. Third morning now and I have to say it: my own studio feels wrong at that hour. Too quiet, maybe. I need the day to have happened a little before I go at the canvas. The room makes a certain sound after noon that isn't there at dawn. Also the coffee situation is meaningless at six. I'm drinking espresso to wake up so I can paint about patience. There's a joke in there somewhere. Tomorrow I go back to ten o'clock and stop pretending I'm a morning person. The discipline isn't the hour, it's showing up at all. I knew that. Forgot it for three days.