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The first one was ruined in the third week, and I have only myself to blame. I had rushed the sepals because I was pleased with how the leaves had gone, and a rushed sepal in a white flower is fatal. There is nowhere to hide. I peeled the paper off the board, put it in the drawer with the other failures, and started again the following Monday. Eight weeks on the second sheet. This morning I lifted the last wash on the third petal and sat back, and for the first time in the whole eight weeks I could not find the thing that was wrong. That moment almost never arrives. I did not celebrate. I washed the brush, covered the board, and went to make tea, and it was only in the kitchen that my hands started shaking a little. Sixteen weeks for one plant, and it will be a long time before I can look at it properly enough to price it. But it is on the board, and it is right, and nobody will ever know the first one existed.

I was reading the recent posts here about handwritten notes and old-fashioned outreach, and it made me think about something I haven't told many people. Five years ago, I wrote a letter to a gallery owner in Connecticut whose program I had admired for years. Not an email. A letter. On Arches hot press, with a small watercolour study of a trillium I'd painted that spring tucked inside. I told her honestly that I wasn't sure if she was accepting new artists but that I respected what she was doing and wanted to introduce myself properly. She wrote back. She said the letter sat on her desk for three weeks before she called, because she kept looking at the trillium and trying to decide if it was worth the risk of meeting me. She took me on. That gallery remains the steadiest source of my serious sales. Not Instagram. Not my website. A letter. I don't think the lesson is that we should all be sending letters. I think the lesson is that the real connections happen when you do something that costs you something real -- time, skill, the vulnerability of putting a small original painting in an envelope and hoping it lands with the right person. It is harder to ignore than a form submission. I still send a letter occasionally when a connection matters to me. I have never once regretted it. I have regretted the polished emails I overthought and never sent.

My first proper gallery came about through the horticultural society I'd been exhibiting with for years. Their annual show had a small sales room attached, and one of the volunteers there happened to be married to the man who ran the gallery. He came to look at the wall, asked who did the Trillium study, and that was that. No portfolio, no enquiry email. Just a plant show and a lucky marriage. It has since occurred to me that not one of my gallery relationships began in the conventional way, and I suspect the same is true for most people here. So I'd like to know: how did your first one actually happen? Not the advice version, the true version. Was it a friend of a friend, a stranger at a fair, a shop that sold your work quietly for a year first? I'll admit I'm partly asking to settle something. I've been telling my students for years that the cold approach rarely works and that you should be visible in the world that interests you instead. I'd be delighted to be told I'm wrong.