"Bad Things Happen When You're Not Where You're Supposed to Be"

I usually only send a "heads up" to people on my friend list that I wrote something over at the wordpress site (www.instudiowithjohnstillmunks.wordpress.com). As I thought about it, I decided maybe this will help out some artists and show people - maybe not. But I thought I'd throw it out there. With the advent of blogs and forums, reputation means everything and the old days of just getting that booth fee are fading fast.

Even if you do not agree with my opinion, I hope my opinion makes you think and helps with future choices.

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Bad Things Happen When You're Not Where You're Supposed to Be

I was standing next to some dufus who was clearly lacking a shirt to wear while in a convenience store in Hannibal, Missouri last Friday night.

It sounds like the beginning of a Kris Kristofferson song, but it is true and the fact that he was standing there in such a state of undress is not outside the realm of possibility or even probability for any given moment in Hannibal. The store itself was also jam-packed with hardcore party-ers suffering from the munchies and an overdose of profanity and adolescent bravado. The subtle tension among all of these characters vying for supremacy in a late night convenience store was laughable and chilling. Amazing what libations and hormones will do - especially in a Missouri river town. Samuel Clemens wasn't too far off, he hit it pretty squarely on the mark.

I simply wanted a Gatorade and some Tylenol after a challenging first day of a disaster of a show. The young bucks in the store stopped insulting each other's mothers and parted like the Red Sea when I did the old Jedi trick and motioned for them to let me pass as I went up to one of the registers.

I love it when they do that!

A simple little wave of the hand works every time when you want a group of geniuses to clear an area. The shirtless young man standing at the counter did not move - he didn't see me. He and his best girl were focused on the clerk at their register as he tried to clear up his error. The guy's tattoos looked very detailed and pretty well made. He must have been proud of them because, well, because he wasn't wearing a shirt at midnight in a convenience store.

I paid for my stuff and and parted the crowd again with the Jedi mind trick routine. I could hear the hum of insults, challenges, and counter-challenges being volleyed back and forth behind me. After affirming to myself that none of the verbiage was directed towards me, I remembered some very important bits of advice - one was attributed to my grandfather by my Catholic priest uncle during one of his homilies. "Bad things happen when you are not where you are supposed to be." was the anchor of Father Steve's address that day and few things are less true. My grandfather was kind of a peculiar guy, but his advice piggy-backed what I heard for many years from my Taekwondo instructors in the classes and at the Black Belt ceremonies: "The best defense is to not be there in the first place." I often use both bits of advice with my children. It's profound, simple, and universal. Nonetheless, I knew I was not where I was supposed to be and I did place myself in jeopardy because of some poor decisions I made.

While my uncle is a priest and teacher, Bruce Baker is a kind of self-appointed art sales guru/expert and lots of artists soak up all the knowledge they can from him - I'm not much of a fan except for this statement: "Choose your shows (art shows) wisely." I think he's mostly full of it, but he is right on this point. Standing on the edge of the convenience store parking lot in Hannibal - before crossing a dark highway that was adjacent to the motel compound (yes, a compound!) - where my dilapated motel room lay in wait for me - I admonished my lack of vision, my inability to provide the best defense - to not be there in the first place. As I walked across the highway into this Hannibal DMZ - I noted to myself that if I would have chosen my art show this weekend wisely - I would not be where I was right then. As Father Steve said: "Bad things happen when you're not where you're supposed to be."

The last weekend in June is typically difficult for me to book as an artist. I do not support what happens in downtown in Des Moines during that weekend ("The best defense is not to be there in the first place."), and since I have the gallery in Des Moines, I choose not to participate in any art fairs in town. I have tried other venues in Omaha and Chicago during that particular weekend over the years. This year I was rejected from Omaha Summer Arts and was again accepted into Fountain Square in Evanston, IL. I declined the Evanston invitation in favor of . . .

Quincy, IL - the Midsummer Arts Faire.

Quincy is in the middle of nowhere, but it is only 120 miles north of St Louis and sits in western Illinois. It is not as expensive as a Chicago show and sometimes these little shows in smaller towns can be quiet gems on an artist's itinerary - or they can be nightmares. Sometimes an artist has to roll the dice and take a chance. Sometimes the community overwhelmingly embraces artists that bring new work, new ideas, and new interpretations to their lives. Normal, IL is like that. So is St. Charles, MO.

Sometimes the entire venue should be wrapped in yellow police tape and be investigated by the bunko squad.

"Choose your shows wisely."

My bad.

Back to the dark highway in Hannibal. No hotel rooms in Quincy, so I had to stay in Hannibal in order to get something below the standard extortion rate. William Shatner is still laughing at my bids for a hotel in Quincy on Priceline. Hannibal is about 20 miles south of Quincy and I managed to get a hell pit across the street from the combination rehab center/singles bar/halfway house/pharmacy/boxing ring/crime scene all in wrapped up in one neat little convenience store where I could get my Gatorade and Tylenol.

"Bad things happen when you are not where you are supposed to be."

The Quincy show runs Friday evening through the weekend and ends Sunday afternoon. It became apparent that the artists' booths provided a beautiful backdrop for the Friday night blues concert. 3000 (or 200,000 if you count the way they do in Des Moines) crowded into Washington Park in Quincy to hear the blues band and then fold up their lawn chairs and go home.

"Choose your shows wisely."

Saturday morning I arrive to find a gentleman farmer offering free samples of buffalo jerky across from the booth.

Farmers' Market Alert!

For the uninitiated, please let me share some fundementals with you. Farmers' Markets and art shows are not compatible. Some will argue otherwise, but you will find they are not artists - generally speaking. People that come to Farmers' Markets typically do not buy artwork during their shopping excursion. Those who search for bran and goat cheese cookies, Brussells' sprouts, rutabagas and hand-fed buffalo don't usually go looking for paintings at the same time. In fact, they just don't.

The farmer stayed an hour or two longer than he was supposed to be. Why would he leave? At any given moment there were 4-5 people walking the two block long sidewalk that were potential customers and he had a boothful of paintings lit up like Christmas morning as a backdrop for his jerky samples. He also had a rickety old baby crib that he was selling for $50 - ("Fifty bucks is all I want for it ma'am, just fifty bucks.") and also some old crafty gourds and baskets that he swore came from a missionary in Africa and he did not really know what they were worth. I vaguely remember collecting Bel-Air cigarette coupons from my mom when I was a kid and seeing that stuff in the coupon catalog.

Did 250 people enter my booth during the weekend?

No.

200?

Oh, hell no!

100?

Maybe, just maybe.

I barely covered expenses. Who's at fault? Who is to blame for such a poor show?

Not the people that raised their eyebrows and whispered to each other while giving me side-glances when they saw my prices or were confounded by the imagery.

Not the people that wondered if I was "under the influences of that Picasser feller".

Not the middle-aged alcoholic wearing her daughter's jeans and pumps: "Do you have Picasso-envy, Honey?"

Not the folks that wanted to know what my "real job" was or where did I "come out of" or wondered how long it took for me "to make that picture".

Not the absolutely wonderful volunteers that brought so much water every hour that I nearly drowned.

Seriously. They were the ray of sunshine all weekend. They worked hard and tried so hard to make it a good show. Angels in a battlefield.

Not the peripheral businesses that were NOT open or chose to ignore the "Faire" - an indicator that something is wrong. When businesses know the public will not buy their products from past experience during "special" events - they choose to remain closed rather than deal with people looking for restrooms, a place to cool off from the heat, or to stand around and visit, etc. By staying closed, a retail business avoids losing money by cutting liability risk and overhead costs. (We do the same thing with the gallery during the Beaverdale Fall Festival in Des Moines every year. It's better to stay closed and make money later rather than open during the event and lose money.) Hospitality businesses usually do a pretty good business at these things. In this case, the few bars and restaurants in the area made at best a minimal effort to remain open and no effort was made to encourage patrons. Again a pungent symptom of some kind of infection, a sign that something is awry. They knew, and I also knew, this was a bad sign. I foolishly did not choose to pay attention.

The people that did purchase my work? No. They not only have fantastic taste, but also my respect. They rose above the odds and their neighbors and purchased beautiful original art at a fair price and they were happy with their paintings. They certainly seemed happier than the people that walking around the park peering into the booths with a scrunched up face like they just stepped in something disgusting.

The fault was mine.

It was my responsibility to choose my shows wisely and I did not do so. Even though I met some wonderful people there and I hope to have some lifelong patrons from my experience at the Midsummer Art Faire, I did walk right into a right jab followed by a left hook punch from Quincy. "The best defense is not to be there." - I got uppity and ignored the advice from my elders, teachers, and my own experience. My decision to not choose my show wisely left me in potentially hazardous slices of Americana like the convenience store and lousy hotel in Hannibal as well as an obviously sub-standard show in a run-down river town in western Illinois. I got lucky and survived the weekend with a small profit, a few new patrons, and not one catastrophe.

"The best defense is not to be there in the first place."

On the drive home I watched a massive storm on the horizon behind me and to my left.

"Bad things happen when you are not where you are supposed to be.".

(Sigh)