My Art is Weird, My Table is a Mess, and I Missed This So Much

My booth at the Spooktacular Halloween Market

Well, it’s that time of year again. The air is crisp, the pumpkin spice is flowing, and I have somehow convinced myself that standing in a field or a gymnasium for eight hours trying to sell people paintings of monster girls is a fantastic way to spend a weekend.

That’s right, after a long hiatus (gosh, 2019 pre-COVID - lol) spent talking only to my paintbrushes and trying out a range of different medias, I’ve rejoined the glorious, slightly unhinged circus known as the craft fair circuit. And you know what? I’ve missed this beautiful chaos.

Let’s be real, the preparation is its own special level of madness. It’s a multi-day ritual that involves:

1. The Inventory Panic: Suddenly realizing that my entire body of work consists of one (1) massive, unsellable masterpiece and seventeen tiny, slightly blurry prints. Time to put the printers to good use.

2. The Tablecloth Dilemma: Oh No, I don't have a tablecloth. Can I wing this with my bathroom curtain that is not currently being used? Okay, I'll get one from the dollar store, but them realized that people had really pretty fabric ones. Oh, and with a personalized table runner! In the end I used a black fabric tablecloth, and a purple pastic one as a table runner. My whole booth should be sponsored by Dollarama and Dollar Tree.

3. The Display Engineering: Attempting to build a stable, eye-catching display with nothing but a 5 dollar cubic shelf made of fabric, some wood trays, a handful of zip ties, and the sheer power of hope. It’s basically building a small, art-filled fortress against the elements (and small, sticky-fingered children).

Then comes the morning of the fair. You arrive in the dark, unload your car with the grace of a sleep-deprived pack mule, and engage in the silent, polite competition with your neighboring vendors as you all try to make your 6x2 plot of land look like a miniature Louvre. Or, in my case, a miniature haunted Louvre.

But then the doors open, and the people pour in.

This is where the magic—and the mild humiliation—truly begins. I get to witness the full spectrum of human reaction to my work. It’s a rollercoaster that includes:

• The Slow-Blink-and-Walk-Away: A personal favorite. Someone will stop, stare at a painting of Medusa, their brain visibly short-circuiting, before they simply turn and walk away without a word. It’s an art review in its purest form.

• The Overly Honest Child: "Mommy, look at all those unicornds" (I want to hand them a business card.)

• The Kindred Spirit: That one glorious person whose eyes light up, who gets it. They point at my weirdest, most niche piece and say, "This one. This one speaks to my soul." These are my people. I would give them my last granola bar.
  

There’s a strange, beautiful joy in this direct connection. After years of hiding behind a screen, there’s nothing quite like the visceral thrill of watching someone pick up a painting you poured your soul into, turn it over in their hands, and smile. Even if they don't buy it, that moment of connection is a kind of currency.

So yes, my feet hurt. I’ve probably over-shared too much about a certain piece with one of the attendees. I’ve priced a painting wrong and had to do math in public, which is its own special horror. And I’ve eaten a "lunch" that consisted solely of a questionable wrap and a sample from the honey vendor.

But my heart is full. My strange little creations are out in the world, baffling and (hopefully) delighting the masses. It’s chaotic, it’s exhausting, and it’s absolutely, wonderfully worth it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go untangle some fairy lights and practice my "friendly-but-not-desperate" smile.

See you at the next one!

P.S. Where will I be next? Check out my home page to stalk—I mean, find—me! And if you see a table covered in weird art and looking slightly overwhelmed, come say hi. I probably have a story for you.