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| Fortune's Rocks Beach Biddeford, Maine - the day after |
I’m new to the arts and crafts show circuit. That doesn’t mean I’m new to art or craft for that matter, just to the concept of setting up a temporary shop for a day, weekend, or even just a few hours to sell your work. In the past year, I’ve been assigned a space between a gourmet fudge maker and a Christmas wreath crafter, a handcrafted unique bird house designer and a whoopee pie baker, and a marshmallow gun carver and my friend Judy, who makes jewelry, and who is “not in this for the money. It’s just fun . . ” but outsold me by 300%.
I have learned a thing or two from these people, though, and from these events. By making mistakes and finding myself wishing I had brought X, I thought I was totally prepared for the show I did this past weekend in Southern Maine.
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| My table display |
The one thing I needed the most and forgot to pack: my thick skin.
The one thing I wasn’t prepared for: disappointment.
The one thing I hoped wouldn’t happen and did: rain.
The one thing I had, but didn’t get much use out of: inventory.
No, I’m not especially spleeny (a good Maine word for frail, sensitive or easily hurt). And no, I’m not generally a person who looks at life with a glass-half-empty attitude.
But it rained. It poured. The brave ones came out to the show anyway and expected to see some serious art. My first sale of the day was my largest: $100 for one of my bigger, display pieces. The rest of my sales were smaller, but were certainly sales nonetheless. It’s just that there were so few of them. I guess I’m lamenting the fact that there were points in the day that I thought I’d cry from the frustration. Rain poured down the gully on the edge of the sidewalk. It dripped in from the metal poles supporting my just-bought-for-this-occasion beige canopy (without the side walls, because I couldn’t find matching ones, which turned out to be a valuable asset to those around me to keep their work dry when the rain came in sideways). Cars drove by and splashed the back of my table, the tablecloth, the gear I had stowed beneath the skirt.
And not that I can blame them, hardly anyone came. And of those who did, many said “ah, the Saco Sidewalk Art Festival . . it always rains . . “ and they’d shake their heads and give me a small grin, like I should have known or like I did know yet chose to come anyway.
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| my canopy covered show space |
Reality is that you sign up for these events long before the extended forecast comes out. You pay the entry fee. You try to consider everything, every what if, or if not. You – or maybe it’s just me – research display ideas and find something that’ll work for your art. You think about how to pack the car for easy unloading and set up. You consider the phrasing of your signs. You dream about making a bunch of money and being able to call your husband and tell him how great it was and that you’re taking your parents out for dinner on your big earnings and how everyone ranted and raved about your work and you have orders for more work that’ll keep you busy until Christmas and you convince yourself this will be worth having given up your day job.
And then it rains.
And only the brave few come to the show.
And thankfully you make enough to just cover the entry fee and your gas.
And . . . you learn.
And you meet a few people and chat with them and bathe in the compliments.
You listen to their stories of this place or that one and how they shot this amazing sunset and oh here it is in my digital camera do you want to see it?
And your face hurts from smiling because despite all of that, you do like doing this.
And you’re happy about giving up your day job and spending the last four nights gluing mattes together and making signs.
And there’s a certain satisfaction when you back up and take a look at all you’ve created and think about the trail of an image to this point. How it goes from something you see through the viewfinder to your computer to the printer to the table with the glue and mat board to a finished product with your name on it that goes up on someone’s wall that they see every day and it makes them smile.
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| Ocean Park Beach Path Saco Maine |
It takes a lot to put your work out there. Not only do you have to have confidence and pride in what you do or create, you have to have a marketing concept of some sort. You have to know no only what you sell, but how you sell. What kind of image do you intend to project? What psychological nerve do you want to touch in the people who walk by your booth? How are you going to get noticed, in a sea of white canopies and colorful signs? I don’t know the statistics on the amount of money spent by the typical consumer visiting an art or craft show. I understand that for someone to earmark some of their time and energy to going to one of these shows, they have to have an interest of some sort. Sometimes they drive long distances. Sometimes there’s an admission fee. Sometimes it takes the coordination of several friends or family members who enjoy this sort of event to decide to go together and make a day of it. I get it. These people have an investment into this before they even get to the gate. This earns them the right to some sort of expectation. Arts and craft show attendees want to see and buy things that are on a different level from the things on the shelf at Walmart. They want to meet the artists and talk to them about their art. They want a story to tell when someone asks them about the photograph of the sunflower they’ve hung in their living room.
My Dad asked me the next morning if I would do it again. I was sore from moving everything and standing on my wet feet all day. I was struggling to repack the car with items I didn’t sell. My patience was thinning. I had a long drive ahead of me and unpacking at the other end.
I said yes.
Tangled lobster buoy ropes on the beach
