Packing

I've always hated packing for trips and for shows-maybe it's because I always think that I'll never have enough of something or that a "vital" bit will get left behind.

There's a part of me, in packing for a show, that wants to put the whole studio on wheels, including all the machinery, tools and shop detritus (those of you who know me will realize that this "detritus" is not insignificant). Obviously, this can't be done. Picking and choosing what goes and what stays is tough and starting the car beofre leaving always gives me that nervous moment as I think about what I might be leaving behind.

The show that I'm about to go to is in Georgia-it's called Folk Fest and it's my favorite show. I usually do well there and the other artists and works in the show, including "classic" folk artists, current artists, oddities, antiques, etc., are always an inspiration-I come back from this show filled with ideas-anxious to get back into the studio and work like a fiend.

It was at another Folk Art show (Kentuck) that my "neighbor" suggested this show to me. Natural skeptic that I am, I paid him lip service and said that I'd apply. You had to be represented by a gallery to be in the show and my neighbor generously offered me representation in his "gallery." He had no such gallery-just the two of us showing our respective art made up the gallery. To make a long story longer, I showed with him at the show next year and did really well. Besides the financial boost, I felt truly at home at this show-talking with so many of the other artists there and seeing their work filled me with all kinds of energy: I hadn't experienced anything quite like it before.

In the past few years, though, it seems as though my friend who got me started at Folk Fest has been having increasingly bad shows. Whether this is fate, bad luck or whatever, I don't know. I know him only through the show circuit and now I worry that he has dropped out of the running-either to reevaluate his work or to just give up. I don't really know because he doesn't return my phone calls. I worry about him-putting myself in the same situation seems too dark to contemplate.

We all go through bad periods. As artists, we can only be so elastic and durable on our own-after a while, we have to acknowledge that public opinion of our efforts counts. Making art in a closet means making things that don't really exist- until the closet door is opened. At shows, besides actual sales, we have only the random kudos (or jeers that we happen to overhear) about our work to fuel us-to tell us what we might be doing right...or wrong. This makes for a tough go of things when working alone-it's as if we create our own language and talk to ourselves in that created language-just a bit insular, wouldn't you say?

That obvious part being said, I have to be grateful that artwork, being visual, doesn't ask an audience to put in TOO much effort, like a stage actor or a poet (who needs a group of people to sit for a length of time while he or she does their thing). At a glance, passersby know whether they like my work or not-if I'm really lucky, I get feedback-good or bad, it's valuable stuff. Occasionally, some one will stop and actually want to talk about my work-I mean, really talk. Pure gold.

But there is absolutely no one there when you feel as though you are falling-that what you do, the very fabric and language of what you have created, is just no good, not appreciated, not valuable. The only advice I have is to get back on that horse and ride (I'm also a big proponent of changing horses, if only for a time-this has certainly helped me through some doubtful periods)-but I know just how hollow that advice can ring for someone facing the void. The trick is to know when to change the channel before things get too damn dark.

Here's another little metaphor: Tying your shoelaces together will surely cause you to trip, but untie those laces and you might just make it.

This one is called "Royally Yours."