Nothing is really wrong. I mean, except for the usual stuff these days.
George's periodic surprises, demands and constant nagging.
Unemployment and reduced monetary circumstances, the wolf not yet at the door but lurking in the bushes, and fear that makes me stare at canned tuna for five minutes contemplating which brand is actually cheaper.
The bum knee and the fact that the GOOD knee is achey from picking up the slack in a freakin' two story house where whatever I need is always on the wrong floor. The various and sundry aches and pains that flesh is heir to, at least for out of shape, overweight, middle-aged women like me. Lack of health insurance. You know. Normal.
I spent the last few days getting ready for the first street fair I've done in over a year. In my last stretch of unemployment during the summer, I was doing an event of some kind almost every weekend. Then we stopped organizing CRAFT, and I got out of the habit.
I ran around like the proverbial chicken, flapping and squawking, trying to get everything together. Not just trying to finish one more painting, one more box, one more monkey -- I tore the house apart looking for my table skirts -- I packed them up and then forgot where I put them. Had to remember how to load the car with tent, wire walls, tables, paintings, boxes and monkeys -- getting my booth into a compact sedan is like putting together a complex puzzle, there's only one way it all goes in.
Meanwhile all those muscles I haven't used in a while are screaming at the unfairness of it all.
Doing street fairs and festivals is a damned hard way to earn a dollar. Making the stuff is easy. That's the fun part. Hauling your crap out to a field or street corner, putting it all together -- that's a bitch. Fitting it in the car. Guessing at the weather, watching the five-day forecast with bated breath. Dealing with heat that ranges from merely uncomfortable to life-sucking, keeping one eye on that large dark cloud looming in the distance. Fearing gusty winds that threaten to take your tent airborne in an eye blink.
You are trapped in that booth, smiling hopefully at strangers all day. You're afraid to go to the bathroom either because of the porta-potty horror or because you know -- you just KNOW -- that the minute you step away, that's the exact moment someone will want to buy the big-ass painting that you've been dragging around for two years. (Of course, the hotter it is, the less likely it is that you'll even need the bathroom; three bottles of water in two hours and you're already dehydrated.)
I'm whining here, but it's not all bad. At least when I used to do our CRAFT events, I was hanging out with my crafty peeps, and when you've got friends around, it's fun. You get to talk to people and catch up. But in Saturday's event, there was only one peep around, and luckily she was next to me, even though it only happened because the event organizers screwed me.
I arrived at 8:30 and was informed that my booth space -- #86, a prime location! -- had already been "accidentally" given to someone else. They moved me to space #110 -- a crappy space. Not as crappy as some, but still crappy, on a back row that the organizers kept insisting faced a "walk way" -- only nobody walked that way, and I was so close to the stage that my ears rang all day.
Even when you are on the "main street" of an event, getting people to stop and actually walk into your booth is the name of the game. It does no good if everybody in the world walks by your booth unless you can get them to come in and look. Touch, even better. Buy, bingo!
It's not really even about the money, though the money is important. Especially if you've paid a high booth fee; if you don't make at least enough to cover the booth fee, you are basically paying to suffer through a long, hot, boring day. I've actually worked a fair where I spent more money on food and drink that day than I earned. If you're not careful, you might actually buy something from someone else, going further in the hole.
But no, it's not all about the money. For an artist or crafter, money is love. Money is tangible proof that someone really likes what you do enough to pay for it. It's acceptance, it's feeling like you haven't wasted days, weeks, months, years -- hell, a lifetime -- doing something just because you love it.
When someone comes into my booth, looks around briefly and then walks away.... it's a terrible feeling. You try not to take it personally, but sometimes it's hard not to feel rejected. When someone comes into my booth, they are looking at my heart, the very core of my existence, my soul. It is not just what I do, but who I am.
I don't expect everyone to buy something. I empathize too keenly with people on a budget. And with my monkeys, it nearly broke my heart to see a kid Saturday who kept looking at them, obviously wanting one, but his mom said no, wouldn't even really look at them; I wanted to give him a monkey for nothing.
I know what he felt like. I walk into other booths, galleries, stores, and see work I greatly admire. Things that take my breath away, make my heart ache to take them home with me... but my wallet simply won't allow it. All I can tell those fellow artists and crafters is that I love their work. But I also know that my admiration won't pay their rent. Still, it is nice to hear.
Don't think I don't love being told someone likes my stuff. I do, I really do. But it isn't the same as a sweaty wad of folding money. A compliment is like a peck on the cheek, a slap on the back; a purchase is an orgasm.
Saturday was not a total loss, but it wasn't good. I made $163, but nearly half of that was from one friend's purchases and I greatly fear it was a pity buy. Oh, I'm sure she liked what she bought, but she also knows I'm in a bind. Making a sale that way is like a kiss from your mother, or a prom date with your cousin. If you take her purchases out of it, I was working for less than minimum wage, even without overhead costs.
When sales are good, I love doing fairs. When sales are bad, I hate them. Sales validate my existence, make me feel good about myself, my talents. A good event is like bathing in social acceptance, sipping on the nectar of admiration. Saturday, there were few sales, and not even many compliments. Not many bodies even looking. Sigh. All that work and sweat and aching muscles and sore feet for next to nothing. Very little love.
So maybe that's why my mood has swung downward. It began even in the middle of the day, seeing other people stop by on their way to do other fun things, leaving me stuck in my miserable, lonely booth.
I got home, too exhausted to do much other than push the A/C down to sixty degrees and sit in front of the tele. I paid $4.99 to see "Edge of Darkness" and was utterly pissed off that the movie was so freakin' bad. I want to call Mel Gibson personally and tell him he owes me not just that five bucks, but the two hours of my life he wasted.
This morning I felt like hell, and managed to smack my head hard on an open cabinet door, and started sniveling as if the cabinet door had done it on purpose. Suddenly I was in a full blown pity party, all leaky. Crying for everything and for nothing. Made a stupid phone call, annoyed someone and just made myself feel worse.
I went to Jerry's Art-a-Rama (alone) and since i was in the neighborhood, I drove by my old house. It's vacant with a realtor sign in the yard, completely gone to hell. My flower beds are all dug-up and empty, even my rhododendrons gone. The only thing left is the peach tree, but no one has been pruning it, it's just running wild and shapeless. There are trees and vines sprouting from the gutters. I loved that house. It was the first home I ever owned, and seeing it like that just made me feel terribly empty. In my current mood, it was as if the house was a symbol for my life. Gone to hell.
At Jerry's I blew $150 on paint and canvas... and then wondered why in the hell I bothered. In this mood, I am sure no one will ever buy anything I paint ever again. I'll just end up with another stack of paintings and no where to put them, until I practically give them away.
Nothing is really wrong. I'm just down. I will feel better, I know I will.
But for now... I feel really sorry for myself.
