Tour Stop- Plymouth No. 2

Aftermath

The Plymouth Art in the Park Festival runs from Friday morning until Sunday evening. At 3 pm on Friday, filled with hope, I believed that the world had turned in my favor. At the same time of day on Sunday, I was ready to quit, burn all my paintings and get a 9-5 job slaving over data entry.

So goes the art festival. So goes the artist.

Today is Monday. The 12-foot box truck has been returned to the rental company. The unsold paintings hastily and unceremoniously stacked in a 10’x20’ storage unit. The grit comprised of four days of suntan lotion and 100-degree asphalt dust, complicated by rain and hotel soap, fortified by uncontrollable mood swings, has been washed away.

I got what I needed.

I hung 9 new paintings for this show. It took me a month to make them… a week to size, frame, epoxy and pack them. I framed 37 new small paintings. I repainted my booth walls, organized some new marketing and planned the trip. The cost of this endeavor is significant when you consider you have no control over who sees the work, the weather and the economy.

I have not exercised during this period, but while preparing for the show, I averaged 22,000 steps per day, according to Apple.

We had two rain events, Friday and Saturday. They were only 30 minute affairs. There was one storm that was predicted but never materialized. When it comes to customers, perception is reality. A thirty minute storm front on the Doppler rules out a trip to the art show. Ambiguity of the predictability is even worse. Pure Michigan.

I made a huge sale to an old friend. I made some new friends. I had dinner with a couple collectors that impress me. I saw Dragan. I gave away a couple paintings to some children and some folks that showed me what I needed to see in humanity. I hung out with Enzo and his parents.

I did not reach my sales goals, but I made enough to keep moving. Like Sick Mick said: "you can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you get what you need."

At 3 pm on Sunday, I think I was a bit dehydrated. I couldn't get away from the sun, 92 degrees and humid as a wet wool sock. I had layered shitloads of SPF, but my skin felt like it was still burning. Sweaty Coconut smell stinging my eyes. To make matters worse, there was not a sale in sight...not a nibble. I was questioning my whole existence. I was pissed at the world, but mostly at myself.

The problem with selling expensive abstract art at an art festival breaks down like this. Maybe 25% of people lean into abstract art. 10% of people can afford my work. 10% of those folks are motivated to buy. 10% of those are buying it like furniture- matchy-matchy. If some person fits all this criteria, it still remains that they must actually see your work in a festival with hundreds of exhibitors. Of course, as with all statistics, the stated percentages above are made up in the moment to illustrate a point. The point is: Running into a motivated art buyer that likes my work and has an appropriate wall to hang a piece is a needle/haystack pursuit.

Many people like the work I do until they find out what I cost. Stories create value and it is difficult to convey your story and product at a festival. I sell something that people do not require. I am not so conceited that I think this world owes me sales. Nobody owes me anything.

When I was feeling lowest, when I felt that nobody was coming to save me and another show was ending, again, without fulfilling my arbitrary financial goals....

I met an ex heroine addict who got hit by a car, and in a separate incident, broke his neck and could barely walk. He was walking, and he was kind, and he was smiling. He is the man who saved me from my woe. He reminded me that the journey is the destination. The why is the actual value.

I am a true believer. I have set forth on this journey with a clear mission and a true commission. Art is simply the byproduct of my life. If you've been here long you know: Go to heaven; do simple commerce; show people they are not trapped. Except for a short hour of my weekend when I decided to throw myself a pity-party...when it was myself that was trapped and failing to do commerce, simple or otherwise.

I remained true to my goals because I was open enough to see the proof in a man that wasn't trying to teach me about my own worldview...he was living right in front of me.

I did what I said I was going to do, and when I failed to keep my faith and hope intact, I found it by Grace. I sit here, today- grateful. A good life is build on a million recoveries from imagined and real disappointments. Progress is made by reducing the time it takes to reinstate your purpose after you fail. Energy is neither created nor destroyed, it is returned to you; not in the way that you want it to be returned, but in the manner you that best heals you.

I live to fight another day.

Your will, Lord, not mine.