Satisfaction with Minutiae

This week seemed really satisfying, at the end at least, if not so much at the beginning. I got a lot of work done, wrapped up the week with Market, and today only have a few tasks on my list. And the sun is out (however temporarily.)

I had big printing job, printed 300 shirts on Thursday and over 300 on Friday. I was pleased to find out I could still do that, without pain and suffering, too. I'm turning 64 next week. It really is hard to imagine doing that kind of screenprinting much longer, but it looks like I will do it for the next few months, anyway. Build-up to OCF is a big effort, bigger still this year with the logo tote bags I am planning to sell.

In a long print run like that, (each pile stood about 30 inches high, pretty much a cubic yard of cotton) I get into the minutiae of it all. These shirts were organic, lightweight, and the ink was waterbase, which is way less toxic than the PVC-based plastisol I have grown to hate. It was a pleasure not to have to wear a respirator and worry the whole time about the high cure temp and subsequent shirt scorch possibilities. It went fast and I could keep working without a break to breathe and rationalize why I'm still doing things I hate. I made more than minimum wage for those two days at least, making up for all the days of prep work and making things that don't sell.

I was proud of my skills. I got down to the exact number of squeegee pulls and the pressure for each (one batch took one firm and two softer strokes, plus a flood stroke to fill the mesh with ink for the next, and the other batch took one less stroke per shirt, but two firm strokes, which is a bit harder on the body) and I could work on my foot position and squeegee angle and efficient movements between the two ends of the conveyor dryer. I wrote blog posts and letters in my head while I worked, sang along with KRVM and grew increasingly fond of the station, for being so Real. I made lists of things I would do when I was finished printing.

I felt that joy of accomplishment and it wasn't about the money. I like surrendering to hard work like I do to nasty weather: the task is clear, finite, and I just try to find some moments of peace in there. Things are out of my hands in a way, while my hands stay busy doing the task. I look outside and want to be out there, so I promise myself I'll do that as soon as I can. I am amused at the news or a song lyric and want to tell someone, but mostly I just want to keep working until the last shirt is folded away in the right box.

I like the work at Market too. Packing up in that tired state is lovely sometimes, watching friends say goodbye or catch up on the conversations they had to drop to engage with customers, observing the parking protocols (I get to stay uninvolved with those, but they can be amusing) and the regular satisfaction I get from building my load on the trailer and working in the orderly sequence I've devised. It all feels good.

My sales weren't that great yesterday, kind of like the weather. I definitely don't have the most fashionable styles anymore, and it's getting obvious that I'm not very interested in the clothing part of my business. I'll be happy to let it go to focus on the hats and bags, or maybe something new. It will still take a year or two (maybe more) to get it all gone.Printing did remind me not to feel guilty about my decorated commercial products...screenprinting is most definitely a craft technique, and one in which my 35 years of practice have made me take it for granted. When I think about the variety of different skills I use and all of the choices involved to get to a decent result, I am reminded that not everyone could produce the goods I can produce. No wonder it is hard to let it go.

And during the Market day, there is a mind-boggling array of skills necessary for success. Some is just knowing how to work your particular spot. I have hot spots in my display, and places no one looks. The right signs in the right places make it easier for customers to engage comfortably. They hate to ask the prices and they each want a particular kind of attention, some more distant and some wanting to be close. I overheard one man complaining that he wanted to buy from one of my neighbors but he couldn't get her attention. I know how hard it is to give the right response...I had the same experience in the opposite way in a farmer's booth. They were distracted by visitors with a new baby...and I was in a hurry. No one was wrong, it just didn't add up to a money exchange.

And then there was my actual purchasing...I like to be recognized, but not pressured. My neighbor Tim Fox brings his wife Gila's lovely, precisely crafted jewelry and I regularly buy earrings, the one jewelry item I wear. My birthday is coming up so I looked over their stones, and liked a pair with marble beads in black and white. I wanted to spend more than $17, so Tim thought to pull out his drawer of extra stock. Tucked in the back was a pair that I loved immediately. The price was way out of my usual comfort zone, so I got the marble ones, and had a few conversations with my fellows about the others. Did I have the money? Yes. Did I think it was a sensible purchase for me? No, money is a little tight right now. I could actually think of about a dozen reasons why I shouldn't get them. I also had a few thoughts about why I should. I told my sensible self to think about it for a week and see if I still wanted them closer to my actual birthday. There are other things I need more, I have a lot of earrings already, and so on...then about fifteen minutes into my wait I went and bought them.

It made Tim's day, of course, and I immediately put them on and my drab rainy-day outfit was transformed. I felt happier, more fulfilled. I didn't care about my low sales. I was more generous with my attention and let Tim give me a long explanation about one of his scientific/philosophical theories of civilization, and I was able to engage with a young person who liked my "Unreliable Narrator" hat, and point him to Tim's little books he sells, so he got another little sale and made a new friend too. It almost made me cry how well that all worked out. When Rich came with his guitar I tried and had some success with singing in Raven's booth. (I'm still not quite comfortable with these impromptu sessions, but we're working on it.)

Every day at Market the emotional quotient is so much greater for me that the huge, clear physical one. I have, every week, some highly significant and profoundly affecting personal interactions. It isn't easy, but I love having a place to have these conversations, a place not as intimate as my kitchen, a place where we know we have to wrap things up and get to the point, which is often the same point: "Ah well, life is rich if somewhat bewildering." Lots of laughing and promises and putting doubts to rest. Those visits mean so much, and I know why people avoid them, and I know why they come back for another one.

I don't feel like a socially skilled person, really. I spend almost all my time alone at home, addicted to work and solitude despite the imbalance that brings. I say many awkward things in the course of a public day, and I feel vulnerable and sometimes even frightened when encounters get confusing. I've driven off many a potential customer with my stupid jokes or assumptions.

Seeing things from the inside of a booth is a perspective we probably shouldn't be so comfortable within. We tend to think of the neighborhood as our territory. We've named the place Raven's Crack for the big crack in the sidewalk that runs between the shaker booth and Willy's White Raven Artworks. We feel like people ought to know our obscure rules...don't bring your petitions in there. We sometimes feel trapped. Three different groups asked me for donations. It's a bit hard to continually be asked to give the things away that I have made to pay my bills with. We feel a bit like sitting ducks sometimes. I know that doesn't occur to those asking for donated crafts: they feel that they are giving us the opportunity to support their group in a way that will multiply, and that is correct of course. We are not in the privileged class, though. People might be surprised how poor some of us are. Yet we are usually generous.

I make it a point to drop dollars into the musician's cases as often as I can, particularly those who bring something wonderful to my neighborhood I would otherwise miss. Most musicians are pretty sensitive to the crowd reaction and I hope they include us as more than background. We don't really enjoy the ones who bring the same songs or come to practice in public and use our attractive setting, though we tolerate them. We really want the ones who see us, and get to know us, and become a part of us. That goes for the visitors too. We don't really like the ones who jam through, smoking and vaping, on their way to the wild scene at the FSP. We don't like so much the ones who hurry through making remarks that reveal their distaste for us or their dismissal of our offerings. We act more like we are on our front porches than in a public place.

Some of us have such a great level of ownership of our dear marketplace that we forget to be generous and grateful. We make snarky remarks or laugh at someone's outfit, or show our annoyance when our display gets messed up one more time. We forget to do those kind things that people remember, like giving someone a bag who doesn't want to spend $5 or $10 just because they left their bags in the car. One of my favorite feelings is surprising someone with thoughtfulness. It doesn't get any better than that little Brownie action I learned at age six, doing nice things for others without the thought of getting anything in return.

By the way, no one stepped in the fountain for the last two weeks. I put a strip of easily-removed masking tape along the edge, and it works like a charm. I did also rearrange my display, but pointing out the edge was really the key I think. I will still give a free hat or tote bag to anyone who comes and tells me they stepped in while looking at my stuff. I have to do some penance for that somehow.

Yes, it's Sunday and I am still so Catholic despite decades of counter-thoughts. I want to feel good and peaceful and like I did the right thing. Virtuous. Compassionate. Generous and giving. I always round up for the Kareng Fund. I always point out where to find my fellow clothing artists when I am asked for their goods. I don't take vendor discounts, unless they are a quarter off a piece of pizza, and I am learning to tip because I realized I am bad at it. Next week I will drop $5 on the workers at Dave's because they never grumble when I come for my free coffee with my own cup. I never think to tip them, because Dave and I trade and money isn't involved. Yet I get special service and expect it, and that is separate from my relationship with Dave. I want to do this life right. Making up is better than avoidance. I want to evolve and save the world in the ways Tim and I discussed.

I love the relief when something is finally addressed and hammered out and things are right in the neighborhood again. Last night the traffic patterns during loadout were working pretty well, and most of the people got the spots they wanted when they wanted them. Tim Giraudier said that all was harmonious in the neighborhood, and that was what stuck with me the whole way home as the rain fell delicately on my head. I loved listening to the real person, a third Tim, on KRVM as I brought in my dampish stuff and stowed it away for another week. And today and last night when the real rain beat on the windows, I am warm and dry. I do love the Market. I do love my life. Hope you all have moments of feeling the same.