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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.

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.

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?

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.

ah here. was in my local sunday evening after the market, still had ink under my nails, couple of prints in a folder I was dropping to a fella. and this lad I know by sight but not by name leans over and spots them and goes "oh right, linocut, yeah. sure that's just a fancy stamp, isn't it. I could do that." and I just. looked at him. looked at the pint. considered my options. I said "you absolutely could, yeah. you'd want a decent set of tools, some linoleum, a barren, good paper, about three years of learning how not to slice your thumb off, a lot of patience for pulling a proof and realising you carved it all backwards, and the willingness to bin about forty prints before you get one you'd show your mother. but sure. stamp. basically." he laughed, fair play, said he'd stick to the day job. but the head on it. the absolute confidence of a man who's never held a gouge in his life that it's just pressing rubber on a pad. I wanted to hand him a block and a knife and say go on so, prove me wrong. what's the one your thing people insist is dead simple?

was set up at the little sunday market in russafa, selling some of my smaller pieces, little jugs, a couple of those face vessels i've been working on, some bowls with this turquoise glaze i finally got right after like six fails. and this guy walks up, picks up one of the face vessels, turns it over in his hands for a while. and he goes "so, this is 3D printed, right? the texture's very uniform." joder. i wanted to hand him a ball of clay and say "here, try making a face with your bare hands, see if it comes out uniform." but i just laughed and said no, it's hand-built, you can see the fingerprints if you look. and he goes "oh, so you designed the file and printed it and then painted it?" i told him the only file involved is the one i'm gonna use to file down my patience after this conversation. he did not buy anything.

There is a girl from our village, maybe eighteen years now. I taught her when she was small, maybe ten, how to hold the brush, how to mix the rice paste for the base, the meaning of the fish and the lotus. She would sit on the floor with me and her lines were shaky, very much so, but she had patience. Last week her father brought me one of her new pieces. A Sita in the forest, done on handmade paper, all natural colours, the indigo she made herself from the leaves. And I tell you honestly, the linework stopped me. Clean as anything my mother ever did. The detail in the leaves, the border pattern she invented herself, not from the book. I sat with it for a long time. I felt first pride, then a small strange other thing. Not jealousy exactly. But something that sat in my chest heavy. She has surpassed me. At her age I was still copying, still learning. She is already making. I told her father she should apply for the state craft fellowship. He said what will she do with a fellowship, she will marry next year. I said nothing then. But I am thinking what to say. It is her hands. They should not stop now.

Okay, I have to know, what's the strangest thing that happened to you during a gallery visit or meeting? Not the worst, necessarily, just... strange. I once had a gallery owner spend a full fifteen minutes telling me about her golden retriever's dietary restrictions before we even looked at the wall space. I thought maybe she was testing my patience or something. Turns out she just really wanted to talk about her dog. I still don't know if I got the meeting because she liked my work or because I nodded along about grain-free kibble. Your turn. Give me something that made you go "...okay then" in a gallery setting.

Not going to pretend I have any idea what I'm doing on here. My daughter set this account up and I'm trying. But here's what actually worked for me this year. There's a stone yard about 40 minutes from the studio. Big operation, commercial stuff, countertops and monuments. They've got a pile out back of broken slabs, cutoffs, chunks with veins running the wrong way. Stuff they'd pay to haul off. I went in person three times over two months. Brought coffee once. Just asked if I could pick through it. They finally said fine, just sign the waiver. I've pulled maybe 800 pounds of good marble and granite out of there so far. Paid nothing. And the crazy part is, a local contractor saw me loading pieces into my truck one day and asked what I was doing. That turned into a commission. Then the yard guys tell their customers about me sometimes when someone wants something custom. Cost me about 12 bucks in gas and some patience. Way better return than the Instagram ads my daughter set up for me. Those got me nothing but spam accounts telling me my work is "mesmerizing." Anyway. If you work with physical materials, find the local supplier's scrap pile. Bring coffee. Ask nice. That's the whole strategy.

Not sculpture exactly, but close enough. Neighbor's property line needed a wall after a bad washout. I told him I'd do it for the cost of materials if he left me alone to work. Took all summer between other jobs. Dry-stack is a different kind of patience. No mortar to hide behind. Every stone has to lock in on its own weight. You spend half the time flipping rocks trying to find the face that wants to sit where you need it. Then you tap it in with a hammer and it either rings solid or you pull it back out. Laid the capstone this afternoon. It's four feet high, thirty feet long, and it'll be there after I'm gone. That's the part that still gets me after all these years.