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Swedish winter light is weak, so I put a full sheet of endpapers on the sill to see the grain better while I decided what to do with it. It was a deep green, the kind you only get in old books before the dye got cheap. Two weeks of low grey light. That was enough. The middle went the colour of weak tea and the edges stayed dark, so now it looks like something owned by a smoker. My fault, and I knew better. I have cut it down to about a quarter of the original for a piece I am working on, which is fine, but I keep looking at the offcuts thinking they are the better part. There is likely a lesson about hoarding and light in there and I'm not going to say it. What I actually want to know is whether anyone here has a system for deciding how much of a ruined sheet to keep. Mine is: keep all of it, forever, and be annoyed about it later.

Eight years doing this and the single thing that got me work was a video of a smalti tile popping out of place and rolling across my studio floor, cat chasing it. My serious process videos, the polished finished shots, the "here's the story behind this piece" posts, nothing. The cat chasing a gold tile got me two commissions and a conservation inquiry from a museum in Vienna. I've stopped trying to figure out the algorithm. It's not a craft, there's no skill to learn, it's just weather. Some days the light hits your post, most days it doesn't. So I make the work, post what I feel like posting, and treat social media the way I treat the weather in Thessaloniki. I don't argue with it, I just dress for it. The people who do well on here spend their whole day on here. I don't have that in me and neither does my back. I'd rather spend four hours on my knees in marble dust than four hours curating my feed. Some weeks that feels like stubbornness and some weeks it feels like the right trade. Mostly it's a wash. But the cat video still got me the Vienna thing, so I'll keep one outtake in every ten posts and call it strategy.

I used to write these careful captions about cyanotype chemistry, the UV exposure times, the pH of the seawater I develop in. Thought people needed to understand the craft to appreciate the print. Then I posted a photo of a print that went completely wrong, overexposed, paper curled, the blue almost black, the seaweed I'd placed shifting mid-exposure so the whole thing was a ghost. I wrote "The sun moved and so did I. This one belongs to the Atlantic now." It got more engagement than any of my tidy process posts. People commented about their own ruined things, the work they'd abandoned, the projects that fell apart. A gallery owner in Amsterdam messaged me asking if I had more "failures" available. I don't think people want to understand how it's made. I think they want to feel that they're allowed to make mistakes too. So now I show the ones that didn't work, alongside the ones that did. The studio floor after a bad week. The prints I fished out of the tide at the wrong moment. The work sells the same. But the conversations are different.

She stood in front of the big one from last spring, the 200 by 160, and said the top third looks unfinished. Not wrong, unfinished. Then she moved on to the next wall. The thing is, that third is the only part of the painting I would defend. It is three passes of cold wax scraped back almost to the ground, thin enough that you see the weave and the underpainting breathing through. It took longer than the rest put together. It is quiet on purpose. Her eye wanted something to land on there, and I understand the wanting, but I have been making the case for ten years that a painting is allowed to have a place where nothing happens. Now I am in the studio three days later and I catch myself looking at that corner like it is a mistake. This is the part nobody warns you about. The critique does not become a thought, it becomes a light source, and everything looks a little different under it. I do not think I will change it. But I am less sure than I was on Tuesday, and I resent that a little. Naja. Has anyone else had a remark like this lodge in the eye and refuse to leave? And did you hold the line or did you eventually see what they saw?

Got a piece sitting on my bench right now that I've been avoiding for two weeks. Knew what was wrong the first time I looked at it but kept thinking I could finesse my way around it. Can't. Gotta cut the joint out and start over. That's the thing with steel that I think applies to everything, you can't fix a bad foundation by piling more on top. I see students do it all the time. Keep adding, keep adjusting, hoping the original mistake gets buried. It doesn't. It just gets more expensive to undo. Had a guy in my studio years ago spend six weeks building a sculpture on a bad armature. Six weeks. Knew the armature was wrong on day three. By the end he couldn't save any of it because the whole thing was built on something crooked. Sometimes the only real move is to scrap it and go back to square one. Hardest thing to learn and I still fight it.

I had a cyanotype on the drying rack for two weeks that I kept walking past and deciding was a failure. The seaweed had shifted mid-exposure, so the whole composition was off, the edges were uneven, the blue had pooled in one corner. Three times I nearly tore it up. Then the light hit it wrong one evening and I saw it. That shifted seaweed looked like the tide had moved through the paper. The pooling corner was exactly the way water sits on a rock at low tide. It's now the one print in the studio I won't sell. I keep it on the wall where the afternoon sun reaches it, just to remind myself that sometimes what I read as a mistake is the sun and the sea telling me what they had in mind all along.

There was a commission years ago, a wall piece for a hotel lobby. They paid me well enough, I thought. But the scrap dealer I got the steel from held onto the offcuts for me, and a decade later I reassembled them into something that finally worked. Those offcuts sat in my studio paying rent for eleven years while they waited to be art. A museum in Brno asked for it, and I priced it like it was a new piece made in a month. €1,200. I didn't count the storage, the handling, the times I nearly threw it out, the re-welding when I finally understood what I had. Rented the van myself on the way up there, carried it in with their technician, fixed the mounting when their wall wasn't level. They were nice people. I like the museum. But I added it up on the drive home, which was the mistake. That offcut had cost me more in rent than the piece sold for. I still take these deals. That's the part that worries me more than the bad math, that I keep agreeing to them because I'm flattered someone wants the thing at all. Fifty-eight years old and still pricing like a student.

Tomorrow I have to deliver an edition of 40 and I've been sitting with them spread across the floor since Tuesday, all of them technically identical, all of them slightly not, and I genuinely cannot tell you which one is the print. There's a smudge on number 17 where the paper slipped, and honestly it's the best thing in the edition, and I'm going to have to pull it because the whole point of an edition is that the 17th is the same as the 3rd. This is the thing I keep coming back to and it never resolves. I make multiples for a living, I believe in the multiple, I teach the multiple, and every time I finish an edition I want to keep the ugly one. The mistake is the only one that's mine. The other 39 belong to the plate. There's a corner of the studio where I stack the rejects, and it's grown into the more interesting pile. I should probably stop calling it the reject pile. I don't have a clean resolution for this. I just want to know if the rest of you who print feel it too, or if I'm romanticizing a slipped sheet of Somerset because I have deadline nerves and no sleep.

I pulled the last two proofs of an etching yesterday, both from the same plate, same ink, same paper, and there is a visible difference. One is a little flatter in the greys. Not a mistake exactly, just the plate giving up a bit of itself. Normally I would destroy the weaker one and keep the edition clean. But I found myself wanting to keep both, because the whole point of my work is that there is no original, and here I am quietly deciding which copy is the good one. The plate is the original. The print is the copy. Except the plate is now worn in a way the early prints are not. So the plate is also a record of everything I have done to it. I don't have a resolution for this. I just think it is funny that you can spend years arguing that authenticity is a story we tell and then get precious about one sheet of damp paper. Also I am aware this is a very comfortable problem to have, sitting in a studio in Kreuzberg with a hot plate and a stack of Fabriano. But it is genuinely the thing I keep circling. Curious if the painters here feel anything like this about the first version of a painting, or if that is a printmaker's disease.

i spent two hours today trying to fix a cut i made in a piece of paper i'd been working on for three days. three days. and the fix is worse than the mistake. now i'm staring at it like if i look long enough the paper will just heal itself. the thing is the mistake part actually looked interesting. but i couldn't leave it alone. had to make it "right." now it's just dead. my studio is a disaster right now. there's a cup that's had tea in it since tuesday. i keep pushing it further away from whatever i'm working on. it's like a territorial thing. the tea and i are in a standoff. anyway. going to sleep on it and probably ruin it more tomorrow.

I did it this morning. Third time I've repainted this interior, same corner of my studio, same grey November light through the window, and it just would not settle. The drawing was off, the values were muddy, I kept overmixing and killing the colour. So I took the palette knife and scraped the whole thing back to a thin brown smear on the canvas. There's this moment after you scrape. The painting's gone, but the canvas has a history now, ghosts of all the wrong decisions. The surface is smoother, there's a stain to work into instead of a white void. And suddenly I can see what was wrong the whole time. The floor plane was tilted. Of course. I don't know if other painters feel this, but scraping down is almost better than a good day of painting. It's a reset without being a blank slate. You keep the mistakes as a foundation. Very few things in life work like that.

I spent yesterday going through the last month's failed prints instead of making new ones. Lined them all up on the long table in the studio, maybe thirty of them. Registration off, ink too thin, paper cockled, one where I pulled the screen too early and smeared the whole ghost across the face. The strange thing is, lined up like that, they look like a series. Coherent, almost intentional. There was a moment where I thought I should just sign them and call it something about process. I didn't. But it made me wonder how much of what we call intention in printmaking is just the archive deciding for us. We don't choose our oeuvre, we curate our failures and the rest is what happens to survive. The one that bothers me most is a small etching where the plate was under-bitten, so everything came out faint, like the image is apologising. I keep coming back to it. Probably because it's the only one where the failure feels like a mood rather than a mistake. Anyway. The table is clean again. I'll make new mistakes tomorrow.

Small thing but it's thrown me. The little Roberts radio in the studio, the one with the aerial held on with a strip of gaffer, finally gave up after about fifteen years. Took it apart, cleaned the dial, nothing. So it's just me and the noise of the house now. And I've discovered the washing machine has a rhythm to it. Not a nice one either. It's a sort of thunk-thunk-thunk-whirr that sets up a tempo I did not ask for, and I've caught myself carving to it. Small controlled cuts, then a long pause at the whirr. Took me two days to cop that my hand was following a spin cycle. The hare's ear I'm working on is now in 4/4 whether it wants to be or not. I'm not one for the headphones thing either, tried it, the earphones kept pulling the block sideways when I leaned over. So I'm left with options. Talk radio in the morning, which is a mistake because I end up arguing with it and losing my line. Or one of the kids' story tapes on the little speaker, which honestly is winning at the moment, there's a version of the Children of Lir on it that's grand to work to. Pointless question I know, but I'm genuinely curious what's on in other people's rooms when the work is happening. Music, silence, the telly through the wall, the dog snoring. I've a feeling the answer says a lot about the person. Mine currently says: I am carving a hare to the beat of a load of whites.

The conservation studio has proper benches. Long ones, good light, nothing on them that shouldn't be. At home I have a table too, a decent one. And yet every single time I start a piece I end up on the floor with the paper spread around me like I'm doing something illegal. It's the only way I can see the whole sheet at once without standing back. Standing back means walking. Walking means the arrangement disturbs itself in my head. On the floor I can reach everything and the dog thinks we're doing something together. The problem is my back. Forty minutes in and I'm folded like a deck chair. I've started setting a timer, not for the work, just to remind myself that humans have spines. It goes off and I ignore it maybe half the time. Today I tore a 1930s Swedish hymnbook page into six strips and got one of them right. One. The other five are in the jar with the rest of the mistakes. Anyway. If anyone has solved the floor problem without actually giving up the floor, I'd listen.

Okay so I finally wrote down the actual hours on a piece for the first time. Big mistake. Huge. This vase, the one I posted last week, the green one with the little face peeking through the glaze. Sold it at the market for €80, felt like a win. Real figure, fine, whatever. Then I counted. Seven days on and off because the clay kept slumping when I built it too tall, two failed attempts in the kiln, the glaze crawled on the first fire and I had to sand the whole thing down and redo it. Like 55+ hours all in. €80 for 55 hours. That's about €1.40 an hour. A kid with a lemonade stand earns more than that. I don't get how other makers survive on this. Either they're way faster than me, or they're not counting either, or they've got a partner with a real salary. My grandma keeps asking why I don't just charge more and honestly? Fear. I'm scared that if I put €180 on it nobody buys it and I've made a thing that just sits in the studio taking up shelf space. But at €1.40 an hour I could flip burgers and have more money and more free time. I want to know what the actual number is that makes it worth it. Not the dream number. The one where I don't feel like a clown doing this.

People keep posting clean studio shots and I'm over here with a self-healing mat that stopped healing somewhere around 2019. The cuts are so deep now the blade catches in the old grooves and drags. I know it's time to replace it. I've known for a year. Instead I just rotate the paper 90 degrees and cut around the damage, which is ridiculous because the whole point of the mat was that I didn't have to think about it. There's something almost archaeological about it though. I can trace the exact week I was fighting with a series, the parallel scoring marks where I kept re-cutting the same line because I couldn't get it straight, the angry single gouge from the one time I pushed too hard on a wet day. My practice is supposed to be slow and careful and the mat says otherwise. I'll buy a new one next week. I won't throw this one out though. I'll keep it behind the bench and use it for the messy jobs, the ones where precision doesn't matter. Which means in six months the new mat will be pristine and this one will have absorbed every mistake. Honestly that feels like a fair division of labour.

The edition is 12 and I have been at the same zinc plate since Thursday. The image is fine. The problem is that I keep pulling proofs to check the bite and then keeping the ones that are "nice", and now I have eleven nice prints and no idea which one is the print. My printer friend says this is the whole point of an edition, that the multiplicity is the work, the small differences are the variable. I know the theory. I have read the theory. I have even written about the theory. But at 1am in the studio with a fan going and my hands black to the wrist, the theory feels like something I say to other people. In practice I am standing there choosing between eleven nearly identical sheets like a woman picking tomatoes, and every one of them is a little bit wrong in a different place. The third one has a softer edge on the left where the felt slipped. The eleventh has a cleaner line and less atmosphere. I like the third. I should not like the third, because liking the third is liking a mistake, and then what do I do, print eleven more mistakes on purpose? I am also aware, and this is the part that actually bothers me, that if I frame the third one and call it the definitive state, it becomes the original, and the other ten become copies of it, and I have spent eleven years arguing that this is a lie.

Bought a kitchen scale to weigh out portions and got curious. Weighed all the clay I've recycled from failed pieces this month. 14 kilos. That's like a whole other person made of my mistakes. And that's just what I saved, not counting what went to the bin. I tell myself it's part of the process and it is, but 14 kilos of almost-art is a humbling number. My grandmother thinks I'm being "persistent" in a sweet way. The kiln knows the truth. Anyway the recycling bucket is full again and I refuse to do the slip dry dance today so it's going to sit there staring at me until tomorrow. The studio is 60% clay ghosts at this point.

I am painting a corner of my studio in the late afternoon light and it is beating me. The wall on the left is a cold grey, the wall behind is a warm grey, and the floor throws a third grey up into both. Three greys, all different, all related. I should be able to mix this. I have been mixing greys for twenty five years. Today: burnt umber and ultramarine, too purple. Raw umber and white, dead. Ivory black and yellow ochre, chalk. I added a hair of viridian and made it worse. Six piles of mud on the palette by eleven o'clock, and the light had already moved on. The corner that was so beautiful at nine was gone. The annoying part is I know what the mistake is. I am mixing the grey I think the wall is instead of the grey I actually see. My head has an idea about what a grey wall looks like and my hand keeps reaching for it. Two hours of painting my idea instead of the thing. Tomorrow I'll scrape the whole corner back to the ground and start with clean, cool, no preconception. Bof. Easy to say tonight with a glass of wine in my hand. Cadmium prices are one thing. Losing a morning to my own stubbornness is another.

i don't have a routine, i have a superstition. i can't start painting until i've made the first mark with a color i don't care about on a surface nobody's going to see. usually it's the back of whatever panel is closest or a scrap of gessoed cardboard, just a dumb flat wash of raw umber or whatever's already mixed and dying on the palette. once that's down i can actually work. if i sit down intending to start on the real thing i'll stare at it for 40 minutes and then "organize" my brushes. i know how this sounds. it's basically a warm up lap. but i've been doing it for like two years now and i can't skip it, tried last week and ended up cleaning out my entire tab drawer instead of painting, so. the muscle has to move before the brain believes it. anyway the actual thing on my mind is that i'm three panels into a series where i'm deliberately ignoring the design part of my brain, and it's going terribly, and i keep thinking about how every single thing i make eventually becomes design. like i can't not compose. someone tell me you can unlearn that part or i'm gonna start believing the dropout thing was a mistake