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For two years I filmed from the clean corner. One square meter of clean bench, nice light from the window, everything else out of frame. Neat little reels of a finished vessel turning on a banding wheel. Perfectly fine, perfectly invisible, about 400 views each and then nothing. In February I broke my phone tripod, so I propped the phone on a bucket of dry clay scraps and just filmed where I work, which is a disaster. Dust, a coffee cup from three days before, my grandmother's old knife I use for everything, half a head that failed in the glaze looking at the camera like it's disappointed in me. That video did 60k. Not a tutorial, not a before/after. Just me wedging clay and swearing in Valencian at a piece that kept cracking. Since then I film the mess and I stop deleting the boring parts. Saves went from maybe 20 a post to 60, 70. But here's the part that annoys me: comments went down. People save the messy ones and don't say anything. So I have no idea if it's working, I just know my DMs are fuller and my shop had 14 orders in March vs 4 in the whole autumn. I think what changed is there's no performance in it. Like people can smell the tidy version. But I also can't shake the feeling I just got lucky with the algorithm on one dumb video and now I'm chasing it by deliberately leaving my studio dirty, which is a very strange thing to be strategic about. Anyway if you film your work, do you clean first? I genuinely don't know anymore.

picked up a piece from the framer today, $475 for one stretched canvas with a simple walnut frame. that alone hurt. then the guy behind the counter, who watched me sign the card, says "you know, you could probably make these yourself if you wanted to save a few bucks." i stared at him. sir. i am holding the thing i made. the painting on the canvas is mine. the canvas itself i stretched and primed in my kitchen. apparently none of that counts unless i'm also milling the wood and cutting the glass. i just said "yeah, i'll get right on learning carpentry" and walked out. but it's been nagging me all day. the way people assume the invisible labor isn't labor. the hours, the mess, the trial and error, none of it registers unless there's a saw involved. anyway the piece looks good. that's the thing. it's the best one i've done in months and now i keep thinking about the $475 instead of the work.

Opened the studio this weekend for the open studios thing. Nothing special, just a chance for people to wander through. Middle of the afternoon a woman maybe my age comes in with her daughter, maybe twenty. Walks straight to a piece I made three years ago from an old boiler door and some broken factory gearing. Stands there. Then she says to her daughter, very quietly, I wasn't meant to hear, "Look. Someone saved this." That's it. Thats the win. Someone saved it. Not someone made art from it. Someone saved it. I've been thinking about that sentence for three days. She understood the whole thing in four words better than any critic ever has.

Left a batch of prints in the fixer a good twenty minutes too long today. Old bottle I forgot to date. When I pulled them out the shadows had gone almost transparent, the whole blue shifted warm and muddy. I thought they were ruined. Then I left them spread on the table and came back an hour later. The light had moved, and the one I'd written off looked like fog lifting off the river. Not what I meant to make. Better in a way I didn't plan. I've been so careful for years, waiting for the clock, weighing everything twice, and the best thing I made all week came from being careless. Not sure what to do with that. Keep the bottle, maybe. Stop dating things.

I pulled down a box from my closet shelf today I hadn't opened in maybe ten years. Inside was a feedsack my grandmother cut down and hemmed in 1952, the fabric so faded you can barely tell it was once yellow. She kept it all these years and I kept it after her. I just sat there on the floor holding it. That sack fed chickens and made dresses for three girls and now it's going in a quilt. I don't know what I'm going to put with it yet but I know it's the center. Some things just tell you when their time comes. Every piece of that old cloth has her hands on it somewhere. I can feel her in it like she just walked out of the room. I tell you what, that woman sewed love into everything she touched. It's a gift to still get to sew with her.

Had a young guy at the booth this weekend, looked at my price tag, nodded like he'd figured something out. Said he could probably do the same thing himself with a Dremel and some YouTube tutorials. I said maybe he could. But I'd been thinking about it all evening and it still bothers me. Not the disrespect, I don't care about that. What bothers me is the assumption that the tool is what matters. Like the only difference between me and him is I own bigger equipment. I've got a 50lb tungsten chisel that I dressed myself because nothing on the market was right for the cut I needed. I spent three months learning to sharpen it right. A Dremel wont teach you how to read grain or when to walk away or what to do when you're 40 hours in and the stone decides to split wrong. Anyway. He walked off with a print. Probably gonna try to carve it this weekend. I hope he does. That's how you learn the difference between wanting to make something and wanting to have made something.

So my grandmother has been keeping a shelf in her house for like three years now, every single piece I've given her. Some are genuinely terrible, first kiln disasters, a mug that came out looking like a sad potato. I always thought she just loved me too much to throw them away, which, yes. But today I was at her place and she pulls out this box and hands it to me. She'd been re-firing the ones that survived in her own little kiln, glazing them properly, fixing my botched bottoms. She said "you were too close to see which ones had something." And she's right, I only ever saw the cracks. There's one little face vessel from a year ago that I was honestly embarrassed by, and she's turned it into something I'd actually put in the shop. I'm not even mad she went behind my back with my own clay and glazes. She's 78 and she re-learned how to do a proper kiln sit just to fix my messes. Cried a bit on the bus home, not gonna lie. She's the only one who ever got it. Anyway I'm putting that face vessel up for sale this weekend. Honoring the grandmother glaze job. She deserves it.

I have a rule I did not choose: nothing comes into the studio without a story of where it came from. This is not romantic. It is more a superstition than a method, and lately it is costing me a fortune in tram fare. There is a yard near the old docks in Holešovice. The man there, Vladimír, keeps a corner for me. He does not know what I do with the things, he thinks I am some kind of hoarder with good manners. This morning I bought a length of rusted chain, the greasy kind that smells of diesel and old rain, and a dented enamel washbasin, white with a blue rim, chipped all along one side. Twelve euros both. He threw in a bent iron hook because I bought him a coffee last time. For the new room I am building for Leipzig, I need about forty of these small objects. Forty stories. I have not found one that belongs since the washbasin. The problem with this work is not the arranging. It is the waiting for the right garbage to arrive. You cannot force it. You can only go to the yard on a Tuesday and stand in the cold and hope. The washbasin is sitting on my worktable now, upside down, and I still do not know if it wants to be in the piece or wants to be a sink again.

Not the rust itself, the water. Had a mason jar of it on the shelf since probably 2023, lid rusted shut, and I finally cracked it open to use on the bottom edge of the big piece and it just smelled like a basement. Corked it and put it in the trash bag before I could talk myself out of it. Two years of a jar taking up shelf space because I was sure I'd need exactly that color. I did not need exactly that color. I mixed a passable one in about four minutes with burnt umber and a drop of payne's grey. Anyway the shelf has room now and I hate it.

I started timing my evening sessions and now I won't paint unless I've got at least a full 20 minutes, no exceptions. Sounds obvious but for years I'd sit down with like 12 minutes before I had to get the kids' lunches ready or whatever, and I'd just fight the whole time trying to warm up and make it count. Total waste. Now if I can't do 20 I don't even uncap the tubes, I just go to bed earlier and try again tomorrow. The difference in what comes out of those short focused blocks vs the frantic squeezed ones is night and day. Eleven year old asked what my superpower was and I said knowing when NOT to paint. She was not impressed.

Needed four more inches of 3/4 round bar to finish a joint and I was out of stock. Stopped the weld, stood there swearing at the bench for a minute. Then I remembered the offcut bucket under the table that I keep meaning to haul to the scrappers. Thirty years of not throwing anything away finally paid for its rent. Dug out a piece of the same stock from some job back in the 90s, cut it, fit it, burned it in. The whole arc felt smoother than it should have. Took a photo of the finished weld to show the guy I apprenticed under. He'd have called me a fool for working with salvaged material, then pointed out where the puddle was off. Anyway. Keep your scraps. The day comes. That offcut bucket is overdue to be emptied. Maybe next week. Probably not.

did a studio cull because i couldn't close a drawer, and found three tubes of cadmium red that had gone solid. like rock solid. squeezed one and it just... cracked. cadmium is like 30 bucks a tube now. i remember paying 12. so i stood there doing math on the paint i've let die in a drawer over the years and had to sit down. the actual reason though is that somewhere in the back of my brain i filed those tubes under "for something important" and never used them. kept reaching for the cheap stuff for studies, saving the good red. saving it for what. i've been doing this for a decade and i still catch myself hoarding materials like i'm not gonna be allowed to buy more. anyway bought new ones the same day. used a fat blob of it on a 4ft canvas the second i got home. felt like throwing away money and also like the correct thing. probably both.

Picking out a block of limestone this morning. Twenty years I've been buying from the same yard. Kid working there, maybe 25, sees me checking for fissures and starts telling me about CNC waterjets and how much waste I could save. I told him I don't want to save waste. I want the stone to tell me where to cut. He looked at me like I was speaking Latin. Not mad about the tech. It's fine for some things. But I'm not trying to produce units. I'm trying to find what's already in there. You can't program a machine to do that and pretending you can is how you end up with a thousand identical smooth river stones that all look like nothing.

I keep my grandmother's sewing basket on the shelf above my machine. It's a wicker thing, split in a couple places, held together with a strip of cloth she tore from something years ago. Her thimble's still in there, worn smooth on one side where the needle pushed through a thousand evenings of quilt top. But the buttons. She had this little tin of buttons, save every one that ever fell off a coat or a shirt, and I cannot bring myself to use a single one in a quilt. I've got plenty of my own saved up. But those are hers, and putting hers in my work feels like borrowing something I didn't earn yet. I know she'd laugh at me for it. She'd say, child, I sewed those in so somebody'd use em. I'll get there one day. Right now it's just enough to have the tin where I can see it while I work. Some things you keep whole a while longer.

I had a canvas on the wall for three weeks that just would not come together. Too much going on, every layer fighting the last one. Tuesday I got fed up and started scraping it down with a palette knife, ready to kill it and start clean. And somewhere in the middle of destroying it, the thing I'd been trying to paint was suddenly there, underneath. Just the ghost of what had been there, with the raw linen showing through in places and the cold wax residue catching the light differently. I stopped scraping and walked away. Came back the next morning and it was the best thing in the room. It's a strange thing about this medium. Sometimes the work happens not when you add but when you subtract. Or when you give up trying to save it and the thing saves itself. I don't know how to plan for that. You can't plan for it. You just have to know when to put the knife down.

Middle of a hot afternoon, helmet up, grinding down a seam on a steel piece I'd been fitting for two days. Guy walks into the shop, no knock, just wanders in from the alley. Stands there watching. I figure he's lost or curious, whatever. I keep working. Ten minutes. He watches me run a bead, watches me chip slag, watches me check the fit. Then he says "you know they have machines that do that now. Robots. Could just program it." I said "yeah, and you could just keep walking." He stood there another minute like he expected more of an answer. Then he left. I don't know what gets into people. They see someone doing something with their hands and the first impulse is to tell you why you don't have to. As if the point was efficiency. As if I'm trying to save labor. I'm not trying to save labor. I'm trying to make the thing.

this is going to sound like one of those "the algorithm is stealing your soul" posts and i hate that but hear me out. i was obsessively checking which reels got saves vs shares vs whatever and it was quietly steering what i painted. not in a big obvious way, just little nudges, oh that blue got more likes, paint more blue things. oh this style of video tanked, don't do that again. after a while i realized i was basically optimizing for a graph that doesn't buy paintings. so i turned off all the metrics. can't see likes, saves, follows, any of it. just post and leave. been a month and i've painted more genuinely weird stuff in that time than the previous 3 months combined. some of it is probably unsellable and i don't care. the irony is engagement went up because i stopped trying to game it. or maybe that's just the algorithm rewarding me for not caring. who knows. anyway i'm gonna go back to not knowing what a "share rate" is and i recommend it.

not a sketchbook, not a journal. it's a cardboard box under my worktable. failed experiments, pieces i started and hated halfway through, collages that just wouldn't lay right. things i cut up and tried to save and made worse. i told myself i was keeping them to learn from. but honestly i think i just can't throw them away. they're like artifacts of a version of me that was trying something and missed. feels wrong to trash that. pulled one out today. a painting i abandoned last february. thick muddy acrylics, wrong composition, everything fighting everything. i scraped at it with a palette knife for a while and something actually started to happen. might not save it but it's not dead yet either. anyone else keep the ugly ones around?

They tore down an old warehouse near Olympou street last month and I went and asked the foreman if I could take some of the tile off the pile. He looked at me like I asked for his kidney, then said take whatever, it saves him the container. So I filled two bags. Red terracotta, mostly, some glazed bits, one piece with a thumbprint in it from whoever pressed it, probably 1920s. 40 euros in bus fare and coffee for the guy and my back for three days. And now they sit in the studio in a bucket and I don't want to cut them. Every other material I have, I cut without thinking, it's just stock. These I keep turning over like they're going to tell me something. My friend says this is why the work goes slow. She's not wrong but she's also not entirely right, the slow is the point sometimes. Anyway the bucket is still there. Some days I think the right move is to smash them and set them in a portrait of the man who built the wall. Other days I just like having them in the room.

She is fourteen, and she agreed to sit on the condition that I not make her look "weird." Which is a difficult promise for a painter, because what I want from a face is exactly the thing people call weird. The asymmetry, the way her chin goes slightly left when she is bored. Two hours, north light, the good linen I had been saving since March. And I held back. I did not correct anything in front of her, only drew what I saw, and when she finally stood up and went to the kitchen I spent forty minutes shifting the whole right side of the face about two millimetres. She has not seen it yet. It is better now and I am not sure I will tell her that part.