Cheater

For several holiday seasons I was privileged to set up my booth next to an accomplished craftsman, known widely for his hand-carved wooden figurines, particularly his expressive Santas, elves and gnomes, any of which could have been jolly s’elf-portraits.

He had a hard time keeping up with demand, especially at Christmastime, so he spent the entire show carving as an entertainment to his customers, staying out of the way of his charming wife, who busied herself taking payments, bagging merchandise, and constantly rearranging their festive holiday display.

His habit was to use an assortment of short-bladed knives to shape each bare block of wood, paring away the chips and curls of shavings until the details of his impish figures began to emerge. At that point he would take up a small, hand-size electric crafters’ drill, the high-pitched buzzing kind, with multiple attachments, the sort of machine that reminded you that you had put off scheduling a dental appointment for longer than you should.

Whuzzzzzz, zuzzzzzzzzz, zi-zuzzzzzzzzz! The instrument droned, barely audible over the hum of nattering show-goers, and the endless loop of Christmas music that was being piped in from overhead.

Crowds gathered in the aisle to see the master at work. He chatted pleasantly with his onlookers, undistracted as he stroked the instrument over the wood, up and down in gentle curves, melting tangled hairlines, knurled fingers, baggy trousers and craggy bearded faces into existence.

Zzuzzzzzzzzz, zi-zuzzzzzzzzz….

An insightful man, he had a way of making things simple…

“There’s no magic to wood carving, You just cut away the pieces that don't belong there, until you find the fellow hiding inside. (I sort of borrowed that from Michaelangelo.)”

…without avoiding the realities of life:

“Every other man that comes in here tells me that he’s planning to take up carving, just as soon as he retires. Tough luck for that fellow, I say. He’ll be dead before he even learns how.”

Now and again someone would step forward to make a predictable point, indicating to the others present that this artist was cheating, abandoning the ways of the true craftsman by resorting to the use of modern labor-saving devices.

“I thought you did these by hand,” they would say, a note of triumph accenting the accusation, as though they alone had discovered a profound truth, and revealed it as a duty to their brethren.

“I carve these things exactly the way my grandfather did,” he was fond of saying, as he did a couple dozen times a day, while accusers and baffled onlookers shook their heads in polite disbelief.

He’d wait a moment or two for his words to sink in, knowing that someone would rise to the bait.

“They didn’t even have those teeny electric drills when your granddaddy was alive, did they?”

“Nope.”   Zzzzzzuzzzzz…

“Then how can you say you do it just like he did?”

Another calculated pause.  “My ancestors believed in employing the highest level of technology that was available to them to accomplish the task at hand,” he’d reply, never once looking up from his work. “ I’m doing the same thing.”

His logic satisfied most of his audience. A few die-hards continued to grimace, and grumble.

“Folks, I’m not trying to see how long it’ll take me to finish this piece. I’m here to create the highest quality product I can make for my customers. You don’t get prizes for making things hard on yourself.”

I think about him whenever I start on another complex, detailed, large-scale design… with a ballpoint pen.

At those times, a part of me wishes I had developed a knack for painting with a four-inch house brush.

Then I remember that I use the highest level of technology available to me to process and disseminate my artwork: a hi-resolution scanner and a printing press. 

I may be a cheater, but I’m not stupid.

What We’re Here For

Back then I was still new at this business, presenting my work to the public in a bona fide art show. I busied myself with setting up a folding table and a couple of easels, balancing anticipation with anxiety, trying to act like I knew what I was doing.

An older man knelt in the space across from mine, fitting together the pre-formed sections of an expensive, professional-looking display. He looked up and smiled.

“What are you here for?” he asked.  

“To sell pictures,” I replied confidently.

“No you're not,” he said, his expression now matter-of-fact, the smile still dancing in his eyes.

Is he kidding? What else would I be doing here?

“Then what am I here for?” I asked, a little incredulously.

“You never know, until after the show is over.” He paused intentionally for dramatic effect.  “Sometimes long after.” 

He held my gaze a moment longer, then turned back to his work.

That was more than a quarter century ago.

His words have stayed with me over the years, have haunted and strengthened me through hundreds of art shows, good and bad. It took a long time for me to understand what he told me that day, even longer to appreciate the value of hearing it early in my career as a professional artist.

He was right, of course. I was hoping to make a month’s rent at that show. More to the point, I needed to make a month’s rent at that show. In my head, I’d worked out all the ways I could generate five hundred dollars, selling $20, $25, and $50 prints, in every conceivable combination. I had my pictures hung, cash box and receipt book ready, a brand new box of business cards, and a boatload of enthusiasm.

What I didn't have was the two-dollar inspirational refrigerator magnets that the lady in the booth next to me had. They were the going thing that weekend, and she sold hundreds of them. Customers lined up all day, every day, using my table to rest their purses while they dug for checkbooks and change.

I went home that weekend with forty bucks, and the understanding that things don't always turn out the way you want them to.

Every art show has its grumblers, people who believe there should be better weather, wider promotion, quieter neighbors, lower booth fees, more customers, more sales, more money.  Sometimes I’m one of them.

At that point I try and remind myself that I’m not just there to sell pictures. I may be there to meet people, to build business relationships, to be inspired by other artists, to give an encouraging word to a beginner. Maybe I’m there to capitalize on the quiet time, and jot down ideas for future drawings.

I’m definitely there to hand out cards and brochures to anyone who is even remotely interested in my work. (If people can’t see what I do for a living, it’s a sure bet that they won't give me enough money to keep doing it.)

Sometimes it takes years to notice the benefit of a ‘zero’ show, to see evidence that the long-term investment of energy and optimism has actually paid off. We always enjoy getting orders from cities we have never visited, from people who tell us they first saw the pictures at a little out-of-the-way art show in Whoshotjohn, Wisconsin. Once a new customer called the studio to make a purchase after finding our flyer in the glove box of a used car she had just purchased. We had never even been to her part of the country, but someone, somewhere had stopped by to see us. The flyer was more than ten years old.

“What are you here for?” is a question I ask myself now, before every show. Maybe I’m there to sell pictures, or just maybe I’m there to pass along a gift I received a long time ago, when a veteran artist cared enough to poke his nose into my business.

I never know until after the show is over.