An older man in a painter’s smock and beret is painting a picture of a cat in his artistic studio.
“Dear Mr. Pawel, You understand me” — I heard this over the phone before we met in person. At the time, I didn’t realize just how much that sentence would become the motto for the entire collaboration.
Building websites is often associated with strict rules: a quick brief, clear agreements, delivered materials, and a timeline. However, in reality — especially when working with elderly, lonely individuals, for whom a website project becomes more than just a new business card on the web — these rules are often only a delicate sketch.
During our first phone call, which I always offer free of charge, I realized that we would not only talk about the website. But it wasn’t until the personal meeting in the client’s studio in Southampton that I saw the full scope of the project — both technical and emotional.
Instead of a clear list of needs, I received an album full of printed photographs and long stories about each piece of art. What was supposed to be a brief consultation turned into a several-hour walk through his world of art and memories.
Knowing that the client cared about minimal costs, I offered the lowest possible price, factoring in that the preparation of materials was his responsibility. The site was supposed to be modest: a gallery of works and a simple biographical page.
Despite this, the time I spent in phone consultations during the project greatly exceeded my initial assumptions. Simple consultations turned into long conversations about life, art, and the history of photography. Even when I tried to have them “on the go,” the conversations always returned to broader themes.
It is also the role of a listener, a guide, and someone who, with their time and patience, builds something more than just a website.
Free Consultation: The First Signs
It started quite ordinarily — like any other conversation with a potential client. The phone rang, a calm voice on the other end, clearly colored by what I call “the classic elegance of the letter-sending generation.” And then that sentence:
“Dear Mr. Pawel, You understand me” — spoken with such seriousness that I almost straightened up.
For me, the phone consultation is always the first step — free of charge, no obligations, just to check if I can help and if we speak the same language.
But after the first fifteen minutes, I realized that this was not going to be a standard collaboration. The client didn’t have technical questions. He wasn’t interested in the stages of website construction or deadlines. He really wanted to talk. About life. About art. About how photography used to be, and how “now everything is different in computers.”
On the one hand — beautiful. On the other hand, a small light went off in my head: are we really talking about a website, or have I just started consultations in the field of art history with elements of existentialism?
Of course, I listened patiently. But also — professionally — I tried to pull out what was needed for pricing and planning. For now, I was gathering more impressions than data. And that was only the beginning.
The Visit to the Studio: Gallery, Albums, and Endless Stories
After the phone conversation, which already lasted a bit longer than a standard introduction, we scheduled a meeting at the client’s studio.
I naively thought: quick review of materials, a few photos, a conversation about the website structure, and then back to work. My schedule was tight, but — as usual — I try to make time for every new project.
The studio turned out to be a place with soul.
It wasn’t an office where documents are in folders and photos are stored in digital catalogs. It was a space filled with art — watercolors, sketches, paintings, little notes with thoughts, quotes, and memories.
Artistic chaos, but with a rhythm that you could feel as soon as you entered.
Instead of a folder with digital files — a huge album. Printed photos. Each one in a sleeve. Each one signed. And to each, a story — long, full of emotions, dates, people, memories.
“This photo I took in the seventies, but I don’t remember if it was before or after…”
“This painting I made after a conversation with…” — and so on.
I couldn’t interrupt. There was something moving about it. Authenticity, passion, but also a loneliness that you could feel.
At the same time — in the back of my head — my inner designer was screaming.
This was supposed to be a consultation, not a several-hour trip through someone’s life story.
In all of this — no specifics about the website. No selection of materials, no plan. And he was only “supposed to show them.”
In my head, I was already putting together versions of the website, considering: should it be a gallery, or an archive? Would it even be possible to organize this into a sensible structure without abandoning this personal narrative?
I left the studio not with notes, but with a sense that I had just visited someone’s diary locked in four walls. And right then, I knew that this project was going to be completely different from all the others.
Minimal Pricing: When Trust Costs
After the first meeting, I had mixed feelings. On the one hand — a great fondness for a person who passionately spoke about his art. On the other — the realization that there were almost no specifics.
But then came the reassurance:
“Don’t worry, I’ll prepare everything. I know what and how to do. I’ve passed on materials before — I know how they should be.”
It sounded reasonable. I thought: an experienced person, an artist who has published before, likely worked with publishers, organized exhibitions.
He was aware that graphics aren’t just about color and emotion, but also format, proportion, resolution.
And based on this — in good faith — I set the minimum pricing. One that was supposed to cover the technical implementation of ready materials and a simple structure for the website: a gallery of works and one biographical page. Without selecting photos, without editing, without scanning, and without long consultations.
In theory — simple. In practice — it quickly turned out that this was a decision based on what I now call too much faith in the phrase “I have everything prepared.”
And it’s not that the client wanted to make changes or had doubts. It’s that the process that was supposed to happen before the project started — preparing materials — was only beginning. But during the collaboration.
At that time, I didn’t know that. At that moment, I was convinced that I had just planned one of the simplest projects of the quarter.
Consultations On the Go: When the Conversation Never Ends
When the project started, I assumed that the whole collaboration would be quick and calm. The materials were supposed to arrive, I was supposed to implement them, the client would take a look and say,
“Yes, this is exactly what I wanted.”
But one phone call was enough to ruin that plan.
At first, I thought it was just one extra question. Maybe a technical doubt — after all, the client was preparing the photos himself.
But a simple “Can this file be horizontal or vertical?” turned into a story about how the photo was taken, where it was made, which camera broke at that moment, and why the photo “has its soul.”
And even when I gently tried to steer the conversation back to the website, it kept going — as if it had forgotten what it was supposed to be about.
Sometimes these conversations happened between one project and another. On the subway, on the go, during a break. I picked up the phone out of politeness, because, after all, an elderly man, lonely, kind.
But with each phone call, I felt that this wasn’t about consultations anymore.
That the project was just an excuse, and the real purpose of these calls was… to be listened to.
I don’t have any resentment. I feel more that I encountered someone who truly needed to talk.
But also — and I say this with full responsibility — I realized that my time cannot be treated as an unlimited resource.
The hardest part came at the end. When the project was done, and the client was satisfied, suddenly there was a surprise: the deposit he had previously paid — described in detail in the email as covering the cost of the meeting and consultations — was to be “deducted” from the final payment.
And that was when, for the first time in this collaboration, things really tightened.
Conclusion: With Respect and a Lesson for the Future
In hindsight, I have neither anger nor regret. I do, however, feel gratitude — though maybe not necessarily for the course of this collaboration, certainly for what it taught me.
This project clearly showed me that time — even the soft, human time dedicated to conversation — is not something to be casually wasted.
That courtesy and empathy cannot replace structure and clear rules.
But also — that behind every website, there is a person. With a past, a story, a need for contact. Sometimes with loneliness, which manifests itself in endless phone calls.
This was not an easy project. But it was an important one.
Because it helped me define boundaries.
Because it reminded me that I’m not just a website builder — I’m also a person who needs to take care of their own time, health, and the clarity of relationships.
And that it can be done with respect.
The same respect I showed this client from the first
“Dear Mr. Pawel.”