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Now I know that sounds like nothing to some of you, but hear me out. It's Coats and Clark, the old navy, and I bought it at a dry goods store in Bessemer that's been a parking lot for thirty years now. I've used that thread on every quilt that mattered. My daughter's wedding quilt, the one for my son when he came home, the little one I made for the first grandbaby, and Lord, the funeral quilts. All of it running through the same spool. I got down to the last bit of it this morning, piecing a strip of indigo shirting into something that's been in my head since spring. And I sat there and looked at that skinny little bit left and felt some kind of way I can't explain. I know full well they still make navy thread. I can order it tonight. But it won't be that navy, and it won't have come from that store. Any of you keep something like that, some old thing you're rationing without even deciding to? I got a jar of buttons from my grandmother's tin that I've been doing the same way and I don't plan to change. Anyway. I finished the strip and there's maybe a yard left on that spool. Lord willing I'll find the right thing to use it on.

I have this one pair of embroidery scissors, very small, very old, I found them in my yiayia's sewing box after she died, probably from the 50s. I don't embroider. I don't sew. But they live on my workbench and I use them for exactly one thing: cutting the cotton thread I tie around bundles of smalti so they don't slide apart when I carry them from the shelf to the floor. Nothing else. If I need to cut string or paper or anything, I use something else. These scissors just do this one job. It's stupid. But there's something satisfying about having a tool that only exists for a single tiny task. Like a little ritual object. Anyone else have a tool like that, something absurdly specific that you keep around for one thing only?

I've been carrying a piece of my grandmother's wedding dress in a jar by my machine for going on thirty years now. Tiny scrap of pale pink silk, faded till it's almost white. I always told myself I was saving it for something special and then I'd look at it and put it back. Yesterday I cut it up and stitched it into the middle of a quilt top I've been fighting with for a month. Just a little square, right in the center where the light catches it. And honey, the whole thing finally came together. I don't know why I held onto it so long waiting for the perfect moment. There ain't no perfect moment. There's just Tuesday, and the cloth, and your hands. My grandmother would've laughed at me for being so precious with it. She cut up her own mother's good tablecloth for a baby quilt the week I was born. Said cloth is for using, not for keeping. Felt like I let go of something I didn't even know I was holding. That quilt's finished now, and it's the best thing I've made in years.

People ask me which brush company and I have to laugh. For the fine black line in Mithila work we do not buy brushes at all. We take a small twig, neem or sometimes bamboo, and we chew the end of it, or press and roll it on a stone until the tip becomes soft and pointed like a needle. Then it is a brush. Nothing else. I keep a small bundle of them tied with thread and when one goes blunt I simply cut the tip and make it again. My mother used to do this sitting outside in the morning light and I do the same now. It is the first work of the day, before any painting. The twig has to be fresh, if it dries it splits and you cannot get the line. So there is a little tree behind the house and my grandson is always the one sent to break the branches, which he does very happily and very badly. Somebody from Delhi once saw my bundle and asked if I could not simply use a 0.1 mm brush from the art shop. I said I could. I did not say I would. The line from a chewed twig is not like the line from a brush. It drinks colour and gives it slowly. If your hand is not steady it will show, there is no help from the bristles. So the twig keeps me honest. When I have not painted for many days I feel it in the first twig, the line comes out shivering. That is my measure of practice. Only difficulty is the colour. My twigs are good for black and for fine work, but for filling large areas the squirrel hair brush from my mother's time is still doing duty, and it is now more thread than hair. I have not found anybody here who makes them. If any of you know a person, kindly tell me.

I've had them sitting on the studio floor since I moved in here. Actually I had them five years before that, in a box, then on a shelf, then on the floor because putting them on a shelf felt like making a decision about them. The sole on the right one is split almost the whole way through. He wore them like that for two years, wouldn't replace them, kept saying he'd get to it. So the piece is mostly about that split. I stitched it. That's it, that's the whole thing, I stitched the sole back together with linen thread and mounted the pair on a panel with some of the paper from the box of his stuff I still can't get through. What got me is I kept trying to make it more than it was. For about a year I kept adding. Charcoal, wash, layering paper over the toes, I don't know what I thought I was doing. Somewhere around month eleven I scraped all of it off and just left the boots and the thread and the one sheet of paper behind them. It looks almost empty now. Empty enough that I wasn't sure it was a piece at all until I saw it from across the room this morning with the light coming in the wrong way. Anyway. It's done and it's hanging in the hallway because I don't have wall space and I didn't want to put it in the closet with the rest. Fourteen months. I'm not sure if that's slow or if that's just what this one cost.

Now listen, I am not a fussy woman, but this old Singer of mine, bless her heart, decided today was the day to throw a fit. The thread keeps snapping, the stitches are all loopy on the back, and I swear I heard it sigh. I've tried cleaning it, re-threading it, even giving it a gentle talking-to. Nothing. It's like it woke up on the wrong side of the basket. I've got a memory quilt for my grandbaby that needs finishing, and this machine is just sitting there, stubborn as a mule.

Today I was cleaning my brushes after finishing a small fish motif piece and I counted the years on the oldest one. That brush came from my mother's hand when I was maybe seventeen. She gave it to me for my first independent commission, a wedding scroll. It has lost hairs, the handle is wrapped in thread twice over, but the point is still true. My son says I should buy new ones, that the bamboo from the market is cheap. But a brush that has learned your hand is not the same as a new one. It knows how much pressure I put when I am drawing the fine lines of the peacock feathers. New brush, it will wobble. This one, it behaves. People these days they think tools are to be replaced when they become old. I think tools become useful only when they become old. Like a good wife's rolling pin or my father's plough, still in the shed even though we have tractor now. Some things you keep because they carry the memory of the work. The thread wrapping is from my mother's old sari, by the way. So even the repair is from her. How can I throw that away. 🙏

Kronan flea market on Saturday, a shoebox of paper for 40 kronor. Someone's whole household accounts, 1952 to 1961. Milk, thread, shoe repair, one for a lampshade. Handwriting gets worse every year, which I find comforting. I bought it for the paper. Good weight, that tobacco-yellow, foxed at the edges. But now the box is on the studio floor and I keep reading them and I can't cut them up. A receipt for 2.50 for shoe repair is not interesting. That's the problem. It's completely not interesting and I've read it four times. Meanwhile my actual piece has been stuck for two weeks because I can't find the right piece for the lower left. Sorted through everything. Twice. I think the receipts stay. The piece can wait.

Was at the church fundraiser sale Saturday selling a few of my smaller pieces, and this man stands there awhile watching how I had the quilts laid out. Comes over and says, real helpful like, "You know they make machines that can do all this for you. You'd get through twice as many." I told him I had forty-three years and my grandmother's hands already doing it just fine, but thank you kindly. He wasn't being mean. I know he wasn't. But there's something about a man who has never threaded a needle in his life explaining to me how to get my work done faster. Faster for what, now? I'm not on a clock. I'm putting my daughter's wedding dress scraps and my great-aunt's apron into something that'll outlive me. You can't rush that and you can't machine it either. Folks see the time in a thing as a problem to solve instead of the whole point of it. Some things are supposed to take as long as they take.

I spent the morning on a Helleborus niger study and threw the whole sheet in the bin at around eleven. Not the flower. The stamen, or rather the anthers, of which there are far too many, and every one of them needed to sit at the correct angle to the filament. I had them leaning perhaps ten degrees too far forward. Nobody but me would ever have noticed. I noticed, and once I have noticed a thing it cannot be un-noticed, so out it went. Three hours of glazing, gone. My husband came in for tea and asked, quite reasonably, whether I might simply have corrected the one I had. I explained that correcting it would have meant lifting colour on a dry wash and leaving a halo, and that a halo is worse than a lie. He took his tea away. The irritating part is that I know exactly why it happened. I was working too fast because I had it in my head that the flower would close by noon, and I let the schedule dictate the brush. The plant was never going to wait for me and I should have respected that from the start. Hellebore is a punishing subject anyway. The white is not white, it is a greenish grey with a faint warmth in the centre, and if you paint it as white it reads as a paper cut-out. If you paint it as grey it goes dead. You have to thread it. Tomorrow I will start again on the same sheet of Fabriano and do the anthers last, when I am fresh, and count them properly before I begin.

Now I love Sister Ruth, I do. She caught me in the fellowship hall Sunday after the second service, held my arm, said my quilt on the altar rail for homecoming was the prettiest she ever saw, and then said the thing. "Can you make me one just like it? Same colors, same blocks. I'll pay you." Same colors. Baby, that quilt is my grandmother's apron and three of my daddy's work shirts and the yellow dress I wore to my sister's wedding in 1979. There is no "same." There's one. I told her I could make her one of her own and she looked at me like I'd offered her a rock. Same look my cousin gave me when I said she couldn't have her mama's dishes split four ways. I'm not mad at her. I'm just tired of being asked to make a copy of the only thing in the world that can't be copied. Twenty-nine years since my grandmother passed and I still can't walk past a certain blue madras in a fabric store without my chest going tight. Anyway. Going to go lay it back out on the floor and finish it. Lord willing and the thread holds.

A lady from Montgomery commissioned a queen-sized quilt, wanted it in her mother's old dresses and a Sunday shirt her daddy used to wear. I charged her $450 and felt a little bad about it at the time, like I was asking a lot. Well I counted it up honest. Sorting those dresses, taking them apart at the seams so the cloth laid right, the piecing, the quilting, binding. Sixty-one hours across three weeks. That come out to about $7.38 an hour and I supplied the batting and thread out of my own pocket. And I still felt bad asking for the $450. I told my granddaughter and she just looked at me like I'd lost my mind. She said grandma, you spent a whole week and a half of your life down there at that machine. And she wasn't wrong. But it's a funny thing, this work, you grow up where the women never charged for a quilt, you gave one for a wedding or a baby or to somebody whose house burned. Money on it still feels a little bit like shame to me sometimes. I know better in my head. Getting there in my chest is another matter. That $450 quilt is on her bed right now with her mama's plaid and her daddy's Sunday shirt all in it. And I'd do it again for the same money, if I'm honest. That's the part that really ought to bother me. 🙂

Been hearing a lot about "content strategy" and "funnels" in these threads. Meanwhile my best sale this year happened because a woman I'd never met spent twelve months quietly watching my story highlights, then one day just wrote me a message in broken English asking if I could do a small version of a piece she'd seen me post back in January. No ad, no post boost, no newsletter. Just a person who liked looking at my work long enough to trust me with her money. The part nobody talks about is that I almost didn't post that piece. It was a commission that got cancelled halfway through, I was annoyed about it, and I only photographed it because I'd already set the lights up. One of those throwaway posts. My Instagram is a mess. Irregular, half-finished work, cats knocking tiles off the table. And it's the regularity of the mess that does the work, not the polish. People watch you be real for long enough and they stop seeing a stranger. The thing that actually sells is time. Nobody can buy that for you. All the paid reach in the world won't do what a year of showing up did for that one message.

i raised my prices. i know it's what you're supposed to do, and honestly i believed it. the 850 painting sold in nine days, so i figured i'd been leaving money on the table and bumped everything about 40%. that was two months ago. sold one small one since, to a friend, at a discount she didn't ask for and i offered out of panic. the annoying part is the work didn't get worse. it got better. i finally figured out how to get that flat saturated orange to sit on top of a purple underpainting without turning into mud, which took me like four separate failed canvases to learn, and nobody cares because nobody's looking. so now i have nine finished pieces stacked against the wall in the studio, which is also my kitchen, and a pricing spreadsheet that i keep opening like it's going to say something different this time. it does not. not asking what to do about pricing, i've read all the threads. more like, is this just the shape of it now. you do the thing, you price it like a professional, and then you wait in a room with your own work.

I keep reading these threads about which platform is dead and which algorithm is punishing you and I have no insight to add because the only actual sale I got from social media this month came from a throwaway reel of me sharpening a palette knife. Just a plain knife and the ring of it against the sharpening stone. No music, no talking, 11 seconds, shot on my phone propped against a mug. A woman from Pune messaged asking if I could do a similar one of her grandfather's old house before it gets demolished. Paid a deposit before I even sent her a sketch. Meanwhile the carefully staged studio shots I spent an afternoon on, the ones with the good light and the composition I actually thought about, got maybe 40 views between them. I have stopped pretending I understand any of this. The algorithm wants what it wants. Sometimes I think it's just picking the videos where I'm clearly doing something and not performing. The minute I set up the ring light it knows and punishes me for it.

She sent me the email back in March and I read it four times standing up in the kitchen. One of my quilts is hanging in a museum show right now. Not a church hall, not the library, a museum. I have been sewing since I was seven years old on my grandmother's porch, and I could not make my legs walk me through that door. So I sat in the car. Twenty minutes, engine off, watching folks go up the steps in their nice shoes. When I finally got inside I walked right past it and had to come back around. And here's what got me. They had it under that low light with the little card on the wall, and my name typed out, and I stood there thinking about the back of it. The back of that quilt is ugly, honey. Seams going every which way, thread knots, a piece of Mama's church dress I had to patch in crooked because I cut it wrong. Nobody's ever going to see the back in that museum. I don't know. I'm proud, I truly am. But I keep thinking about all the women who made beautiful things and never once got their name typed on a card. My grandmother never saw a museum except the one time we rode up to Birmingham. Anyway. It's up through January if anybody's near there. I'll be back to see it again when my hands stop shaking lol.

The brush for the fine line, the one for the outlines, that brush is now having only three hairs. My mother used that same brush. Before her also it was there in the house. The bamboo handle is black and shining from oil of the hand only, no varnish ever. My son said buy a new one from Patna, it is nothing, hundred rupees. I said you bring it and I will see. He brought. The new brush hairs are too many, too stiff. It drinks more paint and puts it down thick, and in Mithila line the whole thing is that the line should be thin like a thread of the sari border and should go and come back without shaking. So now I am doing the peacock tail with three hairs and it is taking double time. Last week I finished only two sheets. The fish border I did in one and half day which normally is half day work. There is a girl who is coming to learn, Sudha, fourteen years. She asked why not just use the new one, it is better brush. I told her the new brush is better for the person who is learning, so the hand becomes steady. For me the three hairs are giving the line I know. But I am also thinking now whether I am keeping the old thing because it is good or only because it is old. That question is sitting with me since two days. Anyway. Work is going slow and the eyes are getting tired by evening. If anybody here is having a brush they have kept beyond its life, I would like to hear honestly how long you kept it.

Three weekends ago I paid 60 for a table at a flea market out past the highway. Two folding chairs, no tent, sun in my eyes until noon. Sold 210. Two small pieces and a stack of prints. If I count the hours and the framing I lost money. Badly. But here's the thing nobody says in the pricing threads. I got four conversations that mattered more than the sales. A woman stood in front of one piece for probably ten minutes and then told me about her mother's house, which is the whole reason I make anything. Another guy took my card and emailed me Tuesday, wants to see the bigger work. That's not a lead from a reel, that's a person who touched the actual surface. Online I get 40 likes and nothing. In person I get one person who really looks. The part that stings is that it's not scalable. I can't do this every weekend, my back won't take it and it eats the studio time. I keep looking for a version of this that lives on a screen and I can't find one. Everything that actually reaches somebody seems to cost me a Saturday and a sunburn. Anyway I'm doing it again next month. If you've done the table thing, what actually sells for you, prints or the real stuff. I haven't figured out the ratio and I'm pricing blind.

Someone messaged me last week about a piece in the group show. Not the painting, a photo I'd printed small and hung low, out of the way, because it's of my brother's jacket on the back of a chair and honestly I almost didn't include it. She offered 900. Cash, no fuss, said it was "exactly the mood she wanted for her hallway." I said no. Then I sat with the email for two days wondering if that was stupid. Here's the thing I keep circling. If she'd said anything about the jacket, about the wear on the cuff, about the fact that it's still got a thread hanging off it because I never fixed it, I probably would've said yes. She didn't. She said hallway. I don't know if that makes me precious or if it means I'm finally drawing a line somewhere. My friend K thinks I should've taken it, money is money, and she's not wrong either. She sells to hotels and sleeps fine. Anyway the photo's still on my wall. Slightly crooked. It's the only piece I've made that I actually look at.

Y'all I still have a flour sack my grandmother hemmed by hand. Just the one, bleached so many times it's gone thin as whisper. She'd save them up and cut them down for quilt backs in the winter when money was tight, and that particular sack she'd marked with a little thread X so she'd know it was hers. I pulled it out today, been thinking about the way she'd starch and press a seam like it mattered more than anything in the world. It does though. It does matter. Somebody sewing careful so the next body stays covered and warm. I don't know what to do with it. Can't cut it up, can't bear to. But I can't just leave it in a drawer neither. Been sitting here a good while just holding it. Some things you don't finish deciding in one afternoon.