Art Fair Animosity: Meeting My Mortal Enemy Face to Face

In early September 2008, our art dealer, for whom we had been a top seller for eight years, called us up: "Hey guys, I'm not sure how to tell you this, but I can't buy any more artwork from you at all, and I don't know when I will. There's something weird going on out there, and none of the galleries are paying us for sold work. Do what you gotta do, but we can't buy any more art."

A few weeks later, the stock market crashed, and our country began spiraling into financial crisis. We had just hired our first full-time employee and had decided to transition from dealer representation to working directly with galleries, but this was not how we envisioned the transition going. We began a full-steam hustle to get into any and every show we could to keep the bills paid.

Simultaneously, we contacted as many galleries as possible to represent us. We quickly were able to get our work out to 14 galleries in less than two months, join many local tent shows, and sign up and pay the booth fee for Art Expo New York for early spring of 2009.

This investment blew through our savings, and we were strapped. In October of that year, we did our first tent show at a jazz festival in Scottsdale, Arizona. We cleared over $4500 in one weekend and were able to pay some bills and eat without using any more savings. We thought all we had to do was two tent shows a month, and we could survive until the big New York show.

Tent Show Turmoil

In mid-November, we were committed to an "Art Show" at Lichfield Park on the west side of Phoenix. The show organizers promised tens of thousands in foot traffic and high-end art vendors. The booth fee was $500. The worst we had done so far at a tent show was $1500, so it was worth it for us, considering we had a family to take care of. I was hoping to clear at least $1500 profit because we had to pay our property taxes, which equaled $1400 and some change. Our taxes were due the Tuesday after this show, and we didn't have it in the bank after our big investments.

We couldn't find a babysitter, so we decided that John would set up while I watched the kids, and then we would switch, and I would spend the weekend selling art at Lichfield Park. It was a warm and beautiful weekend. Our booth looked great after spending every weekend for the last couple of months doing these shows. We had nice paintings in price ranges from $100 - $5000.

After John left, I started to strategically make friends with my neighbors. Since I was alone, I needed people to watch the booth when I had to go to the restroom. After I did my rounds, I realized all of my neighbors were selling everything other than fine art. To my right, I had a Cookie Lee distributor of MLM jewelry. To my left, I had someone selling $10-$20 metal yard decorations, and across from me was a guy, who I chose not to meet, selling commercially made folding chairs with a rooftop. Buy one for $120, or buy two chairs for $195.

He didn't have a tent, a booth, a business sign, or even a folding table. His entire setup was a heaping pile of long, narrow boxes with a strap piled like a game of Tetris. One of his chairs stood assembled to show how it looked; the other, he demonstrated folding and unfolding to show how easy it was to assemble. The grand finale was pulling the rooftop up and over the chair while onlookers smiled and said, "Oh! It has a roof for shade!"

I was utterly disgusted! He didn't even have different colors. They were all navy blue. He probably found some huge discounted Chinese distributor and bought thousands of these chairs for nothing. How is this art?! He belonged in a flea market, not a fine art show! I decided to find the show coordinators and ask how he was allowed to be there when the application clearly stated that we had to sell original art.

As I walked around, I started to look at their loose examples of original art. I didn't mind the potters, or jewelry designers, or even the people selling handmade cutting boards. But I drew the line at all the commercially made things resold here at this "Fine Art Show."

Where were the art police?! Surely, plant nurseries, metal outdoor furniture, commercially made rugs, and folding chairs with roofs were beyond the scope. I finally found someone walking around with a clipboard.

"Hi, are you one of the show organizers?" I asked.

"Yes, what do you need?" She looked hurried and stressed.

"I was just wondering if everyone filled out the same application. Mine said we could only sell original art, which excluded prints. Yet I see Cookie Lee, Origami Owl, and commercially made products here that aren't even art." I tried not to let my irritation show and told myself to use my sweet voice.

"Yeah, we have only done this show a few times, and we had a hard time filling the spots, so we decided to expand it to get more people here," she explained.

"I see. But aren't you worried that you aren't attracting the right buyers coming here to expect only art? I mean, I paid my fee thinking you were bringing in art buyers, not people looking for lawn chairs."

Oops, I didn't use my sweet voice.

"Well, if this show doesn't work out for you, then I guess don't come back," she said, pretty irritated. I went back to my booth while giving myself a pep talk convincing myself that people would feel refreshed and relieved to see the small collection of fine art paintings among a sea of crafts and commercially made junky products. I only had to sell a couple of paintings to hit my tax bill target. I taped a smile to my face and stood in my booth, hopeful.

A Tale of Two Booths

There was a lot of foot traffic. In fact, this show brought in more people than I had ever seen before. Surely, a percentage of these people are here for the art. Occasionally, people would come into my booth and look at the art, smile at me, or ask a few questions. They looked at the title cards with the prices and then left shortly after. I saw them walk across to the Chair Guy and watch the show of him folding and unfolding the chairs. He would sit in them, dramatically cross his legs, and lean back fake relaxing and miming having a drink while everyone laughed.

He brought in a huge crowd, and I constantly had tons of people with their backs to my booth enjoying the show. When he was done with his demo, the people lined up buying two chairs at a time, walking away with the boxes and their straps hung over their shoulders. By noon, I saw that his pile of chairs was down to less than 20. Thank GOD! This horror show will be over soon when he sells out!

Sure enough, within a half hour, he was out of product except for his two floor models. He stopped demoing and left, presumably to get some lunch. We had a brief reprieve from the shouting, jokes, and crowds of people watching chairs get folded. I was able to see what was happening with my neighbors. Cookie Lee seemed to have steady business, selling some jewelry and recruiting new jewelry salespeople. I could overhear my neighbor's spiel on how you can run your own business while raising children and have access to all this great jewelry.

Yard Decor Guy to my left was also doing well, selling his metal sculptures on a stick that twirled in the wind. I saw many people walking around with one of his sticks in their hand. He must have sold at least 100 of these sculptures by now. I could feel that sick poison of jealousy and self-pity gurgling in my gut while its fumes rose to my thoughts: "Why not me? Why is everyone selling things around me but not me? It's not fair. None of these people are artists or are following the rules." I was so frustrated I wanted to cry.

A Moment of Redemption

Then, two women came into my booth and were admiring the art. I saw each of them holding small 12x12 gallery-wrapped paintings in their hands as they continued to look and walk around. Then, one of them began browsing through our paper pieces and pulled out some of her favorites. She kept holding them up and asking her friend which one she liked better. I struggled to work past my resentment and bitterness into the land of friendliness and make small talk or introduce myself. I just sat there like a glum sour puss, unable to speak.

Thankfully, the women didn't seem to notice. They came over to me with their selections and paid for their paintings. I managed a smile and a thank you. I didn't get their email or make a connection because I was so deep into my self-pity.

After they left, I had my own private celebration. I made $450, and it was only halfway through the first day. I was only $50 away from making my booth fee back. I realized I could do this. I could really sell enough art to pay my taxes due Tuesday. I could survive another week as an artist. I only needed a couple more sales like that or even just one big sale. My heart rebounded with hope again. More people began to come into my booth and compliment the work, saying they would look around and come back. The cheesy chair man was back, sitting relaxed and looking full in his chair under the shade of the roof. People just walked by him and didn't even notice.

I was secretly very pleased. He was no longer gathering crowds of people or shouting, or saying the same lame dad jokes again and again. I wondered why he was still there. Why didn't he just take his two chairs and go home? It seemed to me that because the spectacle across from me was over, I now had people noticing my booth and coming in. I had more people look at my work in the last hour than I had all morning.

I started to cheer up, and the bitterness toward cheesy Chair Guy began to fade. I even barely started to feel happy for him that he did so well, and now it was my turn. Another art buyer was leafing through our paper paintings and made a selection. It was a small sale of only $150, but I had officially made my booth money back and was ahead $100.

My wee bit of joy was interrupted by the sound of loud beeping of a backing-up freight truck. My heart sank as I saw the Chair Guy stand up and walk to the chain link fence just behind his space near the backed-up truck. Two men got out of the truck, opened the back, and began hoisting boxes of chairs to the man. He joyfully began stacking them in his space, constructing his Tetris pile again.

I couldn't believe my eyes. I looked around to see if Yard Decor or Cookie Lee even cared or noticed. They didn't! I could feel the surging swell of injustice and rage boil in my gut. I stood motionless, feeling doomed to a very long weekend of listening to Chair Guy do his demo again and again as his boxes left two by two and his pockets filled with bills.

I felt ashamed that I could feel such hatred for someone I didn't even know. He could be a dad just trying to get by. Maybe he even volunteered for the homeless or was a math tutor. I didn't know, but I couldn't stand to even look at him. Every time he unfolded a chair and flung the rooftop up, it felt like daggers to my soul, leaving a mark of rage and bitterness. I couldn't shake it. I couldn't get over it. This man was my mortal enemy. He embodied every evil I could think of. He represented every man's failing. He was my nemesis.

From Despair to Determination

As the Sunday crowd began to wind down and the Chair Guy was on his fifth load of chairs, I could feel my rage and frustration fade into sorrow. My thoughts betrayed me in these moments when I realized I would not be able to pay my taxes. I was robbed by the Chair Guy's siphoning every would-be-buyer into his hideous lair of navy blue chairs. I told myself that I was finished. We had a nice little career selling art to dealers, but now we would be destitute and never sell art again. I would have to go look for a job and put my kids in daycare. My life as an artist was over.

John came with the kids, and they all joyfully helped pack up the art, the walls, and the tables, loading them into the van with cheerfulness and humor. I told John that I had failed and didn't sell enough art, that I barely made our booth money back. He kindly gave me a hug and said, "It's ok; I'm sure you did your very best. These things happen sometimes."

His words felt like piercing arrows that exposed my own darkness. He didn't know. John didn't know about my rage, my horrid bitterness, my wretched jealousy, or about how my booth became a putrid vortex of despair. He had thought I had done my best.

On the quiet ride home, I sat with myself and resisted the rock of sorrow that formed in my throat. I wanted to wail and cry as I realized what I had done. I lost a part of myself, and I wanted it back. No matter how big the failure (because big failures will happen), I cannot lose who I am. I cannot allow failure, frustration, or injustice to steal my soul. I cannot engage with the vile and hideous spirits of self-pity, jealousy, or rage. I absolutely cannot give in to the easy route of nastiness that turns into resentfulness and hatred. No failure should ever have that power.

Not selling enough art was not my failure at all. It was only a setback, an unfortunate event. My true failure was aligning with such darkness, for turning my heart away from who I am.

I made a decision in the car that evening. I would persevere no matter what. I would keep selling our art, keep painting, and keep making small changes to succeed. But most importantly, I would persevere in my character. I would grow, soften, and change. I would not become bitter or jealous. I would celebrate my neighbors' victories and encourage them when they fail. I would remain true to my own heart and aim to love people through every challenge and frustration.

This was one failure I could control. I could render my heart to love and surrender myself to a positive attitude, no matter what.

I don't remember how my taxes were paid that year. But I do remember the many frustrations, heartaches, and failed art shows I endured in my valley of suffering. Through it all, I refused to give in to bitterness or resentment and prevailed with a glad heart into a new season of success as the world turned.

What lessons have you learned from facing your "mortal enemies" in your career or personal endeavors?

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