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I have a shelf that was supposed to hold reference books. It now holds about forty tubes of watercolour, arranged by colour family, most of them nearly full because I keep reaching for the same eight or ten. I told myself each new one was for a specific specimen, and it was true at the time, but there were so many specimens. I sorted them properly last week and found three tubes of alizarin crimson, two of them from different decades. That gave me pause. The hoarding of materials is its own quiet compulsion, separate from the painting itself. I think we all know this. I am not quite ready to call it a problem. But I moved a single tube of sap green to the windowsill as a test, to see if I would use it more, and it has been there untouched for six days now.

I have been painting the same Rosa canina sprig for four days, which is longer than it warrants, and this afternoon I discovered I had cut the sheet from the wrong side. The felt mark runs underneath and the sizing is subtly different. You would not see it in the finished painting, but I can feel it. The washes sit a fraction differently and I have been quietly blaming my own handling since Monday. I am going to finish it. Throwing away four days of work over a mis-cut sheet would be a poor sort of discipline, and the specimen itself is a good one. But I have written the correct side in pencil on the pad cover now, which I should have done years ago and did not because I was certain I would remember. Does anyone else keep making the same small, entirely avoidable mistake on the grounds that they are too experienced to need a note?

I had a new student in my botanical watercolor class yesterday. She's a pleasant enough woman, retired, looking for a hobby. We were going through the basics of setting up a composition from a live specimen, a simple cyclamen leaf, and she asked, quite earnestly, if she could just take a photograph of it and trace the outline instead. I explained that tracing would defeat the purpose of learning to see, which is rather the whole point of the exercise. She seemed unconvinced. She said it would save time and look neater. I suggested she give it a proper try first, and if she still wanted to trace at the end of class, I would help her. She did not want to trace by the end of class. But the amount of energy I had to spend not saying "you are paying me to teach you to draw, not to show you how to avoid learning to draw" was considerable. I understand that people want shortcuts. I do. Watercolor is difficult and it takes years to develop any real control. But the shortcuts don't actually get you where you want to go. They just leave you dependent on the shortcut. I suppose I am old-fashioned about this. Learning to see, really see, is the skill. Everything else is technique layered on top of that foundation.

I run a small letter, once a month, and about a year ago I stopped sending it to the whole list. Now roughly half of it goes out in the post, printed on the same paper stock I use for my study sheets, folded, hand addressed. It costs me a fortune in postage and an afternoon I could spend painting. The reply rate is around thirty percent. The email version gets maybe two percent. What those replies actually contain: a woman in Devon asking what blue I use in the shadows of white flowers, a retired pharmacist who noticed I'd labelled a specimen with the wrong collection date, a teacher who wanted the whole letter in the classroom. None of that happens by email. Email replies are "lovely, thank you." The envelope gets a letter back. The part I did not expect is what it does to my teaching. Everyone tells you to grow the list, run the free download, build the funnel. I did the arithmetic and it says the opposite. Four hundred people who open an envelope are worth more than four thousand who open a tab, and I cannot explain that to anyone selling me a course on audience growth. I am not recommending this. It is expensive, it does not scale, and I am fairly sure it will never make me a name people recognise at a market stall. I just know which version of my work is actually reaching someone, and it is the one with a stamp on it.

I will start. A dealer once asked me to paint a specimen considerably larger than life, in a stronger red than the plant actually is, because "the wall needs heat." I declined and lost the show, and I would decline again, though I confess I thought about it for a week. So: what has a gallery or curator asked you to alter? Size, palette, framing, subject, a background that isn't there in nature. Did you hold your ground or give in, and how did it turn out either way? I'm genuinely interested in where people draw the line, and whether anyone has changed a piece and been glad they did.

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've been thinking about refusals. Twenty years ago a small gallery turned down a series of my botanical plates, politely but firmly, and the owner said one thing I have never forgotten: "Your work is accomplished, but it is not yet interesting." It stung terribly. It was also exactly right. That one sentence sent me back to the reference library, back to the herbarium, and changed how I approached every piece after that. I know most of us collect rejections like specimens. But has a gallery ever turned you down and given you something genuinely useful in the process? A piece of feedback, a correction of direction, even just a clearer sense of what you did not want to do? I would be interested to hear whether anyone else kept something from a no, or whether they were all just plain no.

I had a small crisis in the studio yesterday that I'm still turning over. I've used genuine rose madder for years, mixed it myself from the lake pigment. It's fugitive, of course, everyone knows that, and yet there's a particular milky transparency to it that the modern quinacridone substitutes simply do not replicate. I've been rationing my last tube like it's contraband. Then I stopped and asked myself what I'm actually doing. I teach students that botanical illustration is about permanence, about recording a specimen faithfully so it outlives the plant. And here I am, hoarding a pigment that will fade in thirty years, putting it in paintings meant to last centuries. It's a bit absurd. Sentiment dressed up as craft. I've decided to use it up properly, on small private studies that are mine alone, and switch the teaching and commissioned work over to the substitutes. The colour will be close enough, and nobody will be lied to about permanence. But I do find I'm oddly reluctant to open that final tube. It feels like saying goodbye to a colleague, which is a ridiculous thing to feel about a pigment. Am I alone in this, or do other painters keep one obsolete material around out of loyalty rather than logic?

I quoted a client £480 for a study of their garden's camellia. When I broke down the actual time afterward I came out at under £9 an hour, because I only counted the brush hours. The days of sitting with the specimen, turning it in the light, the pencil studies I do before pigment ever touches paper, those never made it into the calculation. Botanical work is slow in a way that doesn't photograph well. A client sees one finished plate. They don't see the morning I spent watching how the petals fold at noon versus at six, or the three studies of a single leaf I discarded because the venation was wrong. I could raise my prices and pretend that accounts for it. I did raise them, modestly, and lost two regulars. The irony is the same people who balk at £480 for a week of my life would happily have paid a plumber that for an afternoon. I haven't decided what that says about me or about the trade I chose. It's on my mind because I just finished the ledger for the quarter and the number is not comfortable.

There's a dead moth on my studio windowsill and it's been there since March. Not a specimen, not something I'm saving for a piece. It just landed there, died, and I haven't moved it. I work around it. I've wiped down that whole sill twice and gone around the moth both times. I keep telling myself it's because I'm not sure where it goes. Which is nonsense. It goes in the bin. Anyway. Started a new piece this week with a torn photo of a kitchen I don't remember being in. The moth is currently winning whatever this is.

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 finished a specimen sheet this afternoon that has been in the drawer, unfinished, since 2013. A single Rosa gallica, and the delay was never the rose. It was the red. Alizarin crimson was the standard for that particular depth of petal and every serious painter knows what it does over time: it fades, browns, quietly betrays you in a frame twenty years on. I could not bring myself to send a sheet out into the world carrying a pigment I knew would fail. So I kept putting it off, then putting it off became a habit, and the habit became twelve years. The answer, when I finally sat down with it, was unglamorous. Permanent alizarin crimson, layered thinly over a quinacridone base, tested on scrap for a fortnight before a single mark went on the good paper. Two weeks of testing to solve what twelve years of avoidance had been circling. I am not proud of the arithmetic. It is dry, it is signed, and it is going to the framer on Monday. Small thing. It has been sitting on my conscience longer than most of my actual mistakes have.

I did a small study commission last month. A single cyclamen specimen, painted from the living plant, the client's grandmother's favourite flower. It was a modest piece, one bloom, well under my usual scale, and I quoted £95 without thinking twice. It took eight hours. Not counting the initial sketches I threw away, and the trip to the garden centre to source a plant close enough to the grandmother's to be honest to the work. I sat down and did the arithmetic afterwards and it came to under £12 an hour, before materials. The paper was good. The paint was good. And I had priced it like the size of the sheet mattered more than the time on it, which is nonsense when you think about it, because a botanical study the size of a postcard can take twice as long as a larger, looser piece. The client was delighted and paid promptly, so I can hardly complain. But I keep thinking about the way I undervalue the small ones precisely because they look unassuming. Nobody sees the hours on a cyclamen. They see a flower on a piece of paper. I have not raised my price for those yet. I will, and it makes me slightly uncomfortable to say so, even here.

I spent six hours on a plate of a tulip last week, drew it from a specimen, got the venation right, the petal overlap, the sheen. Then yesterday I was rinsing brushes and glanced at it and saw the thing has six stamens per flower. Tulips have six, so that part was fine. The problem is the leaves. I painted the leaves as if they clasp the stem neatly at ground level, which is what everyone draws, and it's wrong. A tulip's leaves wrap high up the stem, one cupping the flower itself. I have painted dozens of tulips in my life and never once got this right because the convention is so strong that you stop seeing the plant. Nobody has said anything. That's the part that bothers me. I'd honestly rather someone had caught it. It means the people looking at it are looking at tulips-from-memory, not at the actual flower, and that's the whole point of what this discipline is for. If we all keep reproducing the same comfortable mistake, we might as well be painting from our heads and saving ourselves the greenhouse fees.

I've been using the same Schmincke Cadmium Yellow for nearly a decade. It's always been one of my most reliable, predictable colors, smooth, even washes, no surprises. And this week, painting a Ranunculus specimen, it started granulating. Settling into the paper texture in a way it simply never has. It's not the paper, same batch of Arches cold-pressed I've been working through for months. It's not the water, I haven't changed my setup. It's the paint. I'm trying to decide whether I got a bad tube, whether Schmincke quietly changed something in the formulation, or whether I'm finally losing my grip on a color I thought I understood completely. If anyone else has noticed a shift in their Schmincke yellows recently, I'd like to know. Because I feel like I've suddenly lost trust in an old friend and I'm not sure whether to replace the tube or just adjust my expectations.

I began a Magnolia grandiflora study in the second week of March. It is now the last week of June and it is not finished. I mention this because a student asked me on Saturday how long a botanical plate "should" take, and I gave her the honest answer, which is that it depends on whether you intend to be correct. The flower has opened, browned, and dropped since I started. I am working from a pressed specimen and thirty-one photographs taken over four days, because the bloom lasts roughly that long and I did not want to guess at the petal reflex. The tepals alone have four glazes. I have repainted the staminal column twice. Most of what I have done this month is not painting. It is looking, and waiting for the paper to be properly dry, and deciding I was wrong about the indumentum on the underside of the leaf. When I was still in the lab I once spent a fortnight on a single figure because the axis label was not quite true. Nobody noticed but me. I do not think that was wasted time either. I would rather have one plate that a botanist cannot fault in ten years than twelve that are merely pretty. I do not expect everyone to agree with that, and I have made my peace with the fact that it is a slow way to earn a living.

I raised my base botanical commission from $450 to $550 at the start of the year. First real increase in three years, and I'd been charging that rate since before I even left the lab. In the first week I lost two regular clients over it. One of them wrote back a polite paragraph about their budget and I never heard from them again. Here's the uncomfortable part. I did the math on what the old rate actually paid per hour, counting the specimen sourcing, the prep drawings, the two rounds of revisions on each piece, and it worked out to roughly $13 an hour. Thirteen. I have former colleagues who make that as a graduate stipend while they sleep. And yet the moment I raised it, I felt like I was being greedy. I still haven't fully reconciled that. The clients who left were not the ones who complained about the work. They were the ones who got a good bargain for a decade. I have three commissions on the books at the new rate and two of them came from complete strangers who never blinked. I keep telling myself that says something, and I keep not quite believing it. When did everyone else stop flinching when they named their own price?

For about two years I dutifully filmed my brush mixing Cerulean with a touch of Quinacridone Rose, the classic "watch the paint bloom" content. Everyone says that's what sells in this space. Last month I had a heavy commission load and simply stopped filming anything. Just posted the finished pieces with a line or two about the specimen. Average engagement per post is statistically identical to the process-video months. The follower count crept up slightly if anything. So I've spent two years on production I didn't need, for an audience that apparently never asked for it. I'm not drawing grand conclusions from one month. But it does make me wonder how much of what we're told is essential is actually just what everyone else is doing, and we're all performing for each other. I'll probably still show a detail shot now and then. But I'm done treating the brush-dipping footage as a requirement.

I spent yesterday and most of today on one horse chestnut leaf. Just the leaf, not the tree or any kind of composition, a specimen study. Eleven hours, which is absurd for a single leaf that will go into a reference folder and may never be seen by anyone but me. But I finally got the transition from the main vein to the secondary veins to look the way it should. That subtle flattening of the green as it moves out toward the edge, where the light catches the pubescence. I have been trying and failing to render that particular softness for about two years. It is not a win that will make sense to most people. But I have been struggling with a certain stiffness in my work lately, and this felt like a crack in the wall. One leaf, properly done. I will take it.

It's a single nodding flower on a stem I cut from the garden last Monday. By Tuesday it had started to droop. By Thursday the petals were translucent and the stamens had begun to shed. Today it's practically a study in decay, the sepals are papery and brown at the edges, the stem is soft. I keep painting it anyway. There's a peculiar honesty to painting a specimen as it actually changes, rather than freezing it at its best moment. The color shifts, the structure fails, and you have to decide whether you're documenting the plant or your own attachment to how it looked three days ago. I think I'm doing both. I set up a new page each morning and work from life, not from the previous day's study. It's unsentimental work, or it's meant to be. The flower doesn't know it's declining. It just is what it is.