u/Sketchypedals

I've been thinking about something and I'm curious how other artists and collectors feel about it.

I recently started a monthly collectible postcard club. Each card is hand-signed, individually numbered, and never reprinted.

Unlike most art prints, I deliberately send the cards without an envelope. They travel through sorting centers, cross countries and oceans, get postmarks, tiny scratches, slightly softened corners, fingerprints from postal workers, and all the other marks that come from being handled by the world.

Part of me loves this idea.

My art revolves around themes of impermanence, decay, nostalgia, and the traces that time leaves behind. In a way, the journey itself becomes the final step in creating the piece.

The card that arrives in Australia won't be exactly the same as the one that arrives in Germany. Each one collects its own story.

On a more personal level, I experienced a carotid artery dissection earlier this year. It left me thinking a lot about fragility, permanence, and how life leaves marks on us whether we want it to or not. Maybe that's one reason why I'm drawn to the idea that an artwork can be changed by its journey.

But I'm curious:

Can travel wear, postmarks, and small imperfections become part of the artwork itself, or would you always prefer art to arrive in perfect condition?

I'd love to hear your thoughts.

I would like to share something very personal here.

At the beginning of the year, I had a carotid artery dissection. Since then, my life has completely changed. I live with a very sensitive nervous system, I am autistic and have ADHD—things that have always shaped me, but have become even more intense through this experience.

After the dissection, I started having anxiety attacks. The fear of dying suddenly became real and tangible. Things that once felt normal began to feel unsafe. I even had to give up my dream: sport Ju-Jutsu. It was a big part of my identity, and letting it go was painful.

But at the same time, it was exactly this that led me to art.

My art is more than just expression—it speaks for me when words fail. It always exists in the tension between life and death, between decay and beauty. That is exactly how the name came to be: Candy Decay.

Sweetness and decay. Life and impermanence. Hope and fear.

Art helps me heal, even though I know it is a long journey. It gives my feelings space without needing to explain them. It is my outlet, my support, and sometimes even my courage.

Maybe someone will recognize themselves in this. Maybe it will help someone feel a little less alone.

I've been experimenting with a monthly collectible postcard club for my artwork.

Each month subscribers receive a different postcard featuring one of my paintings. Every card is signed, embossed, numbered and never reprinted.

I've had a few people join already, but growth is much slower than I expected.

For those of you who sell art:

Do you think the issue is the concept itself, the pricing, or simply that collectible art takes a long time to build momentum?

I'd love to hear your honest thoughts.

I want to share something that's been on my mind.

I'm not trans.

But I've always felt drawn to the trans community.

Maybe it's because so many of the questions that seem to follow trans people have followed me, too.

Questions about identity. About belonging. About who you are when the world wants simple answers and you don't fit neatly into them.

I've never felt completely at home in the categories I was given. I'm autistic, I have ADHD, and I've spent much of my life feeling slightly outside of things, trying to understand where I belong.

Of course, my experience is not the same as being trans, and I would never claim that it is.

But I have always felt a deep sense of connection, admiration, and care.

Right now, I'm working on a commission from a sister for her trans brother, and it has reminded me once again how much courage it takes to live authentically in a world that doesn't always make that easy.

Because of that, I decided that a portion of the profits from future prints of this artwork will be donated to a trans organization.

It's not a grand gesture.

It's simply my way of saying:

I see you.

I care about you.

And I'm grateful that you exist.

To me, trans people represent something incredibly powerful: the courage to become yourself, even when the path is difficult.

You have my respect, my support, and a place in the Candy Decay universe.

You matter.

And you are loved.

I would like to share something very personal here.

At the beginning of the year, I had a carotid artery dissection. Since then, my life has completely changed. I live with a very sensitive nervous system, I am autistic and have ADHD—things that have always shaped me, but have become even more intense through this experience.

After the dissection, I started having anxiety attacks. The fear of dying suddenly became real and tangible. Things that once felt normal began to feel unsafe. I even had to give up my dream: sport Ju-Jutsu. It was a big part of my identity, and letting it go was painful.

But at the same time, it was exactly this that led me to art.

My art is more than just expression—it speaks for me when words fail. It always exists in the tension between life and death, between decay and beauty. That is exactly how the name came to be: Candy Decay.

Sweetness and decay. Life and impermanence. Hope and fear.

Art helps me heal, even though I know it is a long journey. It gives my feelings space without needing to explain them. It is my outlet, my support, and sometimes even my courage.

Maybe someone will recognize themselves in this. Maybe it will help someone feel a little less alone.