Search

ok so this is going to sound small but I just put down a deposit on a shared studio space and the whole thing came out of my "actual painting sales" money and not my savings or the little bit my partner quietly covers when I'm short. Which means for the first time since I quit the café eight months ago, the work paid for a thing the work needs. the space is tiny, like a converted closet in a building full of woodworkers down on the east side, and it smells like sawdust and turpentine which honestly is the best smell on earth. there's a skylight. A SKYLIGHT. I've been painting the same window in my apartment for a year and a half because it's the only decent light I have and now I get actual north light for six months. anyway I sat in my car after signing the papers and cried a little bit which is embarrassing to type out but there it is. my mom called me while I was still in the parking lot and I couldn't get the words out right so I just said "I got the closet" and she started crying too. we're a family of criers, it's a whole thing. the terrifying part is now I have a monthly bill I didn't have last week. but the good terrifying. I think. ask me in march haha

Painted a still life tonight at the kitchen table after the kids went down. Same table we ate spaghetti at two hours earlier. I wiped it down, laid out the drop cloth, and there's still a smear of tomato sauce on the corner of my reference photo that I just decided to live with. I used to feel bad about not having a real studio space. Read all these posts about people's dedicated rooms with north light and proper easels and I'd get all wistful. But honestly the kitchen table works. The light is awful. The cat walks across my palette at least twice a session. My 8 year old stuck a drawing of a dinosaur to the easel I can't even use because there's no room for it. But it's the only uninterrupted hour I get and I'll take it. Finished a decent little pear study tonight, better than my last one. That's the whole win. Packed it up and now I'm eating leftover spaghetti over the sink like a civilized person. Who else is painting on a dining room table or a folding tray or wherever they can grab space?

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.

There is a plywood crate in the corner of my current space. It has followed me across three studios and one divorce. Inside: every exhibition catalogue from 1989 to about 1997, the years I was showing regularly. Nobody will ever look at them again. There is no archive interested. But I cannot throw them out because somewhere in there is the proof that I was doing something, and I know how stupid that sounds. The younger ones don't have this. They have hard drives and cloud storage and nothing exists physically anymore. I'm not sure which is worse, a crate of dead paper or a folder nobody will ever open. I told myself last week: the next time I move, the crate goes. But the studio got flooded in spring and my first thought was the crate, before the drawings. So I am not moving anywhere, and the crate stays, and I am fine with being this predictable.

My studio is an old factory space and the heating is a joke, so there is a radiator in the corner that clicks and knocks in a rhythm I have come to know exactly. When it starts up around nine it means the custodian has switched the boiler on. When it goes quiet mid-afternoon, he has switched it off again. I never look at the clock anymore. I know where I am in the day by the radiator. Today it went quiet at fourteen-thirty and I thought, fine, I will keep working in the cold because I was at a place in a canvas I did not want to leave. Two hours later my hands were stiff and the paint was dragging wrong and I finally admitted the heating was not coming back. The custodian is on holiday, probably. Somebody told me this and I did not listen. I keep a thick wool jumper in the studio for exactly this. It has oil on the left sleeve from maybe three years ago, a smear of burnt sienna that will not wash out. I put it on and the canvas and I agreed on a different temperature. It is a strange thing how cold changes how oil behaves, the resistance of it, the drag. There is a kind of honesty to working like that. Then my wife called and asked why I sounded like I was talking through a scarf. The light went out of the day at four. I scraped the canvas down and left it to wait for tomorrow. Some days are like that, you build a layer and you take it off again and the day is not wasted because you learned the colour needed to come from somewhere else.

open studio night at the community space downtown. juror's supposed to be walking around, talking to people, whatever. i watched her glide past my piece, two minutes tops, maybe, and then plant herself in front of some guy's photorealistic campbell's soup can. twelve minutes. i clocked it because i was that bitter. and look, i'm not saying my work is for everyone. it's messy. there's a lot going on. but 45 seconds versus 12 minutes on a can of beans? i wanted to walk over and ask her if she was waiting for the soup to heat up.

I remember one studio visit early on. The artist's space was… a controlled chaos. Paintings everywhere, materials piled high, but there was a deep focus. It made me re-evaluate my own need for order. What was one studio visit that stuck with you, and why?

cleaned my entire workspace yesterday. spent like 2 hours reorganizing, threw out old dried up paint tubes, wiped down the palette, the whole thing. looked at it and felt very adult and put together. woke up this morning and it already looks like a bomb went off. there's a rogue paint lid stuck to my forearm and i don't remember when that happened. i think the desk just reproduces chaos overnight when i'm not looking. it's personal at this point. anyway the painting i'm working on is going fine but the space around it is actively hostile. who else's studio is just a controlled disaster that you've given up on pretending to tame

The steel door into my space on the edge of Žižkov is a joke. Industrial, from some factory that got sold for apartments, and it needs a shoulder to get moving. Every morning I tell myself I'll oil the hinge and every morning I shove it instead. I think I've decided the struggle is part of starting. Like the work can't begin until I've earned entry. Which is nonsense, but nonsense that gets me through the threshold. Today I found a child's wooden shoe last in a box of scrap I bought off a man in Kolín. Someone wore that thing maybe 1940s, the heel worn smooth on one side. It doesn't fit anything I'm building. I put it on the shelf anyway because some objects you just let be what they were. Not everything has to become art. That took me fifty years to learn and I'm still not sure I believe it.

My first real gallery came out of nothing I did well. I was sharing a studio in Berlin, and a woman who had the space next to mine was curating a small group show about the copy. She needed one more printmaker because someone dropped out two weeks before. She asked me, I said yes, that was it. No portfolio, no email, no strategy. Total accident. I have been trying to reverse-engineer that accident for eight years now and I still don't know how to do it on purpose. So the question: how did your first one actually happen? Not the version you put in the bio, the real one. I want to know if anyone got in by anything resembling a plan, because everyone I know seems to have got in sideways. And a second thing, since I am curious: who did the asking? Did you approach them, or did someone hand you the door already open? I think the second happens more than we admit and we pretend it was all our hustle. I will say mine: nobody handed me anything, a curator needed a warm body with a press. Tell me yours is better.

People always ask to see the studio like it's this beautiful light-filled workshop. It's a corner of my flat in Ruzafa, 4 square meters if I'm generous, and my little kiln is wedged on a table next to the tostadora because it's the only circuit in the piso that won't trip. So when I fire, the whole flat smells like hot dust and I can't make toast for 8 hours. My abuela came over Sunday, looked at everything, and asked if the kiln was "a new appliance for the family." I said sí, the most expensive one. What I actually like about it: I can't spread out. So I build small. Small means I try more things, and when one dies in the firing I'm sad for maybe ten minutes then I'm already building the next. Last week I lost two faces to a glaze that came out like wet cement. But the third one, the mouth cracked open in a way I could never plan. That one's on the shelf looking at me. Anyway. Curious how much space everyone else actually has, because I keep seeing these huge studios online and I need to know if I'm the only one firing next to the breakfast

what's the one thing in a gallery contract you read and immediately knew you weren't signing? for me it was exclusivity within the city. i get it, they don't want me selling out of my studio down the street, but i'm not locking myself to one space when rent is due and the other gallery two blocks over actually sells my stuff. ngl i asked them to strike it and they did, which told me more about them than the whole rest of the contract honestly. what's yours? the commission split that gave you pause, the "artist covers shipping" fine print, something weirder? tell me i'm the only one who's crossed stuff out like a toddler with a crayon.

Sold a 160 x 200 cm painting last week that I painted in 2019. It had been sitting in storage, first at the gallery, then in my studio, then back at the gallery. Five years. The buyer paid €4,800. The gallery takes 50%, so €2,400 to me. Sounds fine until you add up the materials: the Belgian linen, the oil, the cold wax, the pigments, the panels I had built for the stretcher. That's maybe €350 for a painting that size, depending on how many layers I burned through. Then the storage costs, I pay €180 a month for my studio, plus a separate small unit for older work. That painting took up wall space that could have held newer work. Hard to calculate exactly but it's not nothing. So €2,400 minus €350 materials, minus let's say €150 in storage over five years, minus transport to the gallery twice, minus the opening night I stood around drinking bad wine and making conversation. Per hour of actual labour? I don't even want to know. And this is a good outcome. The painting sold. Many don't. I'm not complaining exactly. I knew what I signed up for. But when students ask me about making a living as an artist I don't know what to tell them anymore. The math has never been worse and the rent has never been higher.

I'll go first, since it wasn't the clean story I like to tell. My first real gallery came from a painter I shared a studio building with. She was moving cities and mentioned me to the woman who ran the space, just in passing, no portfolio, no pitch. The gallerist came to see two paintings on my wall and took the smaller one. That was it. Six years of knocking on doors myself before that, and the door opened because someone said my name in a corridor. So I'm curious how it went for the rest of you. Was it a cold email that worked, a friend, an open call, a walk-in, a show you almost skipped? And be honest about the luck part. I think most of us pretend it was all strategy afterward. Tell me your story, and whether you'd say you earned it or you were standing in the right place.

my studio is an uninsulated garage and it's 40°f in there today. i've got a space heater pointed at my feet and i'm working anyway because i've been avoiding this piece for two weeks and the avoidance is worse than the cold. there's something about winter studio time that i actually don't hate. no pressure to be productive because everyone assumes you're suffering. low bar. anything i make between december and february feels like a bonus. currently hunched over a painting i'm pretty sure i ruined yesterday. might just let it stay ruined and see what happens next. sometimes the ruined ones end up being the ones i don't hate.

when i first moved into this space two years ago i was so annoyed about the windows. it's a basement unit and the only natural light comes from these little hopper windows at street level that just show a brick wall about three feet away. i thought i'd hate it forever. but there's something about a wall that close. you watch the light change on the brick across the day, how it goes from grey to gold to almost purple. in winter the frost traces the mortar lines. i see maybe six inches of sky if i press my face against the glass. it's enough. also no one can see in so i don't have to tidy up for an audience. there's a pile of stuff next to my table that's been there since august. i know where everything is.

Mine: a woman who ran a small space told me she'd "definitely get it in front of a collector who collects exactly this." Two coffees, three studio visits, nothing on a wall. I still don't know if she was lying or just disorganized. Anyone else got one? the thing they said would happen, and then the silence. Trying to figure out if I'm too suspicious or still not suspicious enough.

How did you land your first gallery? Mine was pure dumb persistence. I was fabricating for a sculptor who had a show in a decent space, and I kept coming back to install and fix things. One day the owner asked who did the welding. I said me. She came to my studio a week later and took three pieces. No slideshow, no artist statement, no portfolio. Just the work in front of her. That was thirty years ago. I still think most of it is timing and someone seeing the actual object instead of the paperwork. What about you? Email with a portfolio, a walk-in, someone who knew someone? Or did it never happen the way you planned?

six months of emails. "we love the direction." "let's revisit after the summer show." meanwhile my inbox stayed quiet and my work sat in my studio getting dusty. then last week they post the lineup for the fall exhibition. same slot they'd been hinting at for me. filled with someone whose whole thing is neon resin pours that all look like the same puddle. i'm not even mad at the other artist. i'm mad at myself for treating "maybe" like a yes for half a year. should've kept pushing my own thing instead of holding my breath for them. everyone says don't wait for permission. i believed it until an actual door cracked open and i stood there politely waiting for it to open the rest of the way. that's the part that stings. anyway. the market crowd keeps buying, so it's not like the work's dead. just wondering how many "maybes" i let keep me small.

Started pulling the boxes down in March. Four of them, mostly paper: a pay stub from 2009, a parking ticket, a birthday card I wrote him in shitty handwriting, two photos of a kitchen nobody lives in anymore. They've been in my studio since he died, moving from shelf to shelf every time I needed the space. Today I drove them to a framer. Just for one piece, not the whole archive. A photograph with a water stain spreading up the left side. I asked him to float it, no mat, so the stain and the torn corner sit there in the open. He said most people want that cropped out. I said that's the part I want. On the drive home I had the radio off and I felt something I did not expect. Not the sad thing. Relief. Like I'd finally let one small object out of my custody. I don't know yet if that's a win or if it's me giving something away that I'll want back later.