Every artisan knows that moment: you list a new piece, set the price that barely covers your materials and time, and immediately feel the urge to apologize for it.
We’ve been conditioned to believe that handmade work should come with a discount code. That creative labor should be a passion, not a livelihood. That art is noble — right up until you try to pay your bills with it.
Somewhere along the way, “affordable” became synonymous with “good,” and “fairly priced” started to sound like arrogance. But the truth is simpler and more uncomfortable: the race to the bottom doesn’t have a winner.
🌿 The Economics of the Undercut
In creative circles, there’s always pressure to price low. To stay “competitive.” To seem approachable.
It starts small — you list an item for a little less than it’s worth, hoping to make a few sales and get noticed. But then someone else lists theirs for less, and another follows, and soon everyone’s slashing their own throats with discount tags.
The result is predictable: makers burn out, materials get cheaper, quality erodes, and buyers start to believe that true craftsmanship is overpriced. The market becomes a hall of mirrors, reflecting scarcity back at everyone inside it.
It’s easy to forget that “competition” wasn’t meant to mean self-cannibalization.
I’ve seen artisans apologize for asking the equivalent of a few hours’ wages for something that took them days — sometimes weeks — to make. I’ve done the math on my own pieces and realized that, if I charged by the hour, I’d be paying myself less than minimum wage.
It’s a strange business model, this creative life — the only industry where people are expected to undervalue themselves out of politeness.
🜍 The Hidden Cost of Cheap
There’s a saying that cheap things cost twice. Once at the register, and again in what they take away from you.
The low price tag rarely includes the invisible costs: the environmental toll of fast manufacturing, the exploitation of workers, the creative exhaustion of artists trying to stay relevant at an impossible pace.
When we reward “cheap,” we’re not just saving money — we’re voting for disposability. For a world where everything can be replaced, including the people who make it.
And yet, there’s still a craving out there for things that feel real. That craving is the proof that deep down, everyone still knows there’s a difference.
The antidote isn’t guilt — it’s awareness. When people understand what goes into real work, they start to see price not as a barrier but as a mirror of worth.
✨ The Psychology of Apology
Ask any small maker how they feel posting a new listing, and they’ll probably tell you the same thing: pride tangled with guilt.
You start rehearsing disclaimers before anyone’s even asked — “I know it’s a little pricey, but materials are expensive…” or “I promise I’m not trying to gouge anyone.”
It’s absurd, really, that we’ve been made to feel shame for valuing our time.
You never see someone walk into a chain store and ask why a CEO’s profits are built into the price tag. But an artisan charging for labor? Suddenly that’s suspect.
The thing is, art and craft have never been about squeezing every penny from a buyer. They’re about reciprocity. The exchange isn’t transactional — it’s relational. A fair price honors both maker and receiver.
It says: I respect what it took to create this, and I respect your willingness to meet me halfway.
🌾 Relearning What Value Means
There’s a deep cultural rewiring that has to happen — one where we stop treating handmade work like a luxury and start recognizing it as the original economy.
Before industrialization, before “brand loyalty” and “market positioning,” there were just people making things for other people. Every bowl, every quilt, every piece of jewelry was born of time, skill, and story.
When we say we want to “support small businesses,” that’s what we’re really trying to remember: that exchange can be personal, ethical, and sustaining.
The truth is, fair pricing isn’t about ego. It’s about ecosystem. If makers can’t afford to make, the ecosystem collapses — and the world loses something irreplaceable.
I think about this often when I’m making pigments from black walnut hulls or bending wire by hand. Those materials didn’t appear from nowhere. They took time — from the tree, from the season, from me. The value is in the time as much as the thing.
🜂 The Culture of Cheap Is a Slow Extinction
We talk a lot about endangered species. But I sometimes wonder if the truly endangered thing is craftsmanship itself.
Every time an artisan feels forced to lower their prices “to compete,” that’s one more quiet extinction. One less person who can afford to keep doing what they love, one more skill that fades when it’s no longer sustainable to practice.
We don’t lose these things all at once. We lose them piece by piece, until one day, everything looks the same.
That’s the real cost of cheap. It’s not just about money. It’s about memory.
🌙 The Cost of Real Things
When I price my work, I think about everything that went into it — not just materials, but mornings, late nights, creative failures, and small victories. I think about the tools I’ve worn down, the hours I’ll never get back, and the quiet satisfaction of making something that exists now because I touched it.
I don’t set my prices to make art exclusive. I set them so I can keep making art at all.
The cost of real things isn’t a penalty for caring. It’s the reflection of what care actually costs.
If we want a world where the handmade still exists — where art isn’t an algorithm and beauty isn’t disposable — then we have to stop apologizing for asking to live.
That’s not greed. That’s equilibrium.
🌿 If reflections like this speak to you, you can support independent creativity through the Mutual Aid Fund or by exploring the Shop: Made by Me | Oddities & Convenience. If you’d like: you can follow us on itch.io or on ko-fi as well.