OK.  I will do it.  I will break the promise that I made to myself about NEVER posting about this subject.  I have always read these kinds of posts over the years and thought:  "Wow.  How whiny is this person.  It can't possibly be that bad."  But over the past few years I have had to confess it really isn't that bad.  Nope.  It's actually worse.

Another day:  another lady.  This one was well up in her years.  A shopping bag firmly clasped in one hand, her fingers of the other deftly examining one of my creations in another.  In a "Just-Say-It-Quickly" voice, she asked me the price on a tiny Dia di los Muertos ornament.  I smiled and said "It's $10".  Faster than a sonic boom, her lips pursed and pouted, and her disgust and disdain shot across my meager 10 x 10 foot space.  She gave me a little huff, then stomped away.

I took a deep breath.  Took a sip of water.  Outward, I seemed calm.  But inside I started swearing like the daughter of a sailor that I am.

 I blame this mentality of the "99 Cents Store Effect".  Once upon a time, not so long ago, all goods were handmade.  Craftsmanship was expected, and those that excelled could expect fair price for their labor.  But now, cheap overseas labor and manufactured goods have over-ran our markets like so many cockroaches in a garbage dump.  With reduced quality and the prices to match, it seems that we calmly accept a poorer quality of work in exchange for a cheaper price.  I get it.  Times are tough and it makes perfect sense to cut corners here and there, in order to save a few shillings.

But, this comes at a price to artists and craftspeople like myself.   Suddenly, it's the cheaper goods that are on the pedestal.  It's us who has to reach the benchmark of higher expectations of a lower price.  With that in mind, let's clear the air a bit.

I am a business:   There are a lot of craftspeople who do one or two shows a year, with the thought of "Let's try selling a few things.  It could be fun".  You will often find these crafters at a church bazaars or a school function.  Their work will often be very simple and priced inexpensively.  Truthfully, they are only charging, sometimes even partially, for the supplies it cost to make that item.  But, they are not a true business.  A couple of shows might be all they wish to do before they decide it's just "too much work".

But true art businesses will charge a fair price.  Like any other business.   You may be surprised to know we have to pay for licensing and fees.  Taxes and insurance.  Booth space and show fees.  And this is before we calculate the cost of the supplies we use.  It doesn't matter if you walk away with a piece of my work or not.  I still have expenses to pay and bills to settle. 

It's fun... but it is still work:   Several times a day, someone will walk into my booth and take down a soft sculpture.  It's obvious that they like what they see and then comes the inevitable question:  "How much is it?"   My heart always skips a beat before I answer.  Because sometimes,  they will not like the answer I give them.

"$100 for THIS?!!!"  They yelp.  And they slap it back onto the shelf.  As I calmly explain that this particular piece took me a painstaking 12 hours to finish, it seems to fall on deaf ears.   Perhaps I could best explain it to them in this way

"Image going to work.  Your boss calls you into his office and sits you down.  He is wearing a broad grin.  'Congratulations!' he says.  ' My superiors and I have discussed your work and have decided that we are so happy with your performance that we have decided to give you an advancement.   From now on, you are taking a PAY CUT.   You will now work for $1 dollar an hour...  maybe $2.  Isn't that wonderful news?  But, it gets better!   We have decided that you will now fully support this company out of your own pocket!  You and you alone are now responsible for all business expenses.  You will pay for all supplies, taxes, fees and payroll.  All expenses, both big and small are now in your capable hands!   Ummmm.... excuse me.  Why are you balled up into a fetal position and sobbing?  You have earned this promotion!  We are thrilled with you!"   

Ok.  I have never said that, but it frequently plays out in my daydreams.

There is a fine line between offers and insults.   I find it difficult to watch some of these "flea market hunter" type shows.  The stars wheel, deal, beg and plead, trying to get the best deal possible.  I cringe every time I see this.  When you bargain with an artist, you are not merely trying to get a deal on an object, you are putting a price on someone's work.  In effect, you are deciding if someone is the difference between a skilled artisan or a sweat shop laborer.  It's hard not to be offended when someone grabs some of my newest work and 'generously' offers me 25% of my asking price.  (It's actually happened!)  No matter how fair I am with my pricing, there is always someone hoping to "pull a fast one on me".  So, now a secret.  Many, if not most, artists are now pricing their work higher simply because it gives us wiggle room when someone tries to chew down our price.  So, maybe you aren't getting away with a deal after all.

The Tax-Man commeth... and good luck stopping him.    Yep.  Death and taxes are inevitable.  To us as well.  So, it doesn't pay to get all huffy when we add that percentage to your purchase.   You see, almost all shows require us to have a reseller's number on file.  The Tax Man knows we are there and is going to demand his fair share.  As artists, we have 2 choices:  we can consult our city sales tax schedule for the correct percentage OR we can add the tax to our asking price and round that figure up to the next dollar and "not" charge you tax.  (See how that works?).  Either way, the customer is footing the bill.  But, it's amazing that some people think that any purchase at a craft show, market or festival is somehow immune to the Tax Man's grasp.  It's not.  So please be gracious and understanding, as neither you or I have control over this fact of life.  And please... don't wink at me and whisper conspiratorially "But I don't pay sales tax."  Because you must... and a twitchy eyelid doesn't stop it.

Small businesses do not operate like large retailers.  Ooohhh... and here is where some people, especially negligent parents, hate me.  Large stores buy in bulk.  And, they understand that, somewhere in that shipment of 5,000 mass produced teddy bears, some will meet a painful (albeit loving) end.   A sudden dismemberment perhaps.  Or a candy-covered hug by a quick child.  A large box retailer knows that there will be losses and damage, and these often end up in a clearance bin... or worse, the back-room incinerator.  But, hey!  It's a couple or three teddies out of THOUSANDS.  We artists don't get that luxury.  A damaged piece not only means lost revenue... it's also time lovingly spent that I can never get back.  So, I do have to (regretfully) charge you for damage done.  Don't hate on me because it's nothing personal.  But when you have  a "one-of-a-kind" piece, there aren't thousands of identical copies to offset a loss.  So parents:  suck it up, apologize, pay for the piece and chalk it up to a lesson learned.  Then use it for potential blackmail to your kid when they are parents themselves.

Thank you for the vent, my dear readers.

Karma Sends a Party Invitation

I am a firm believer of Karma.  I know it exists, because I see it in action every Saturday.  My beautiful "adopted" sister Patty is my best example.  Every show, I see her put together a special item or two that she has made. At random, she will give it to a passer-by.  Perhaps its a small purse to a little girl.  A wheelchair bag for a disabled person.  Or, my very favorite, a patriotic bag to a young man celebrating his recent graduation into the USMC.  She NEVER expects anything in return.  She once told me that it is because she made a conscious decision to be a blessing to this earth.

And I agree.  I once risked being fired at a hair salon because I gave away a haircut to a customer the day before her husband's funeral.  My coworkers chastised me, saying that if they wanted, they could report me and have me dismissed.  Because, after all, I had "stolen" from the salon by not charging for that quick trim.  I was adamant.  Here was a woman, in grief, from her husband's unexpected death.  It only took a few minutes of my time to do a kindness.  Where was the harm?  I expected nothing, except for maybe a few points in my Karma score.

Last month, I jumped at the chance to make one more deposit in my Karma Account.  On a sweltering day at the Pasadena Swap Meet, a woman and her daughter came into our booth.  They were admiring my necktie halter vests when the woman began to tear up, telling us that she couldn't help but think of her beloved father's ties hanging in his closet, after his recent passing.  I knew what I had to do.  I got up and chose a pretty, delicate pendant and enclosed it in her hand.  I told her that I felt she needed something positive to hold, and this was my gift to her.  And I meant it.  I wasn't looking for a sale.  Her grief was genuine and I had a chance to reach out and give a kindness.  I would have done this for anyone.  It's simply the right thing to do.

That woman was Nancee Borgnine.  And her father was Ernest Borgnine.

I will be the first to confess, I am not a person to be starstruck.  My average work day spans 10 to 12 hours and I don't watch a lot of TV.  Or maybe it was the 100+ degree heat. But I didn't think of the celebrity status.  All I understood is, here was a woman who loved her father very much, and now he was gone.

And, let's give Nancee her due.  She could tell this was an honest gift, from one daughter to another.  She is a very astute lady and she saw that there was no ulterior motive. I simply wanted to do something good.  Something right.   I just wanted to "be a blessing", as Patty says.   And at that moment, Karma decided my account was full enough and that Nancee could make a withdrawal in my name.  In the form of a party invitation to participate in an Emmy's swag party.

We had a mere 5 weeks to prepare.  Five weeks to order a new camera, find something to wear and sew my ass off.   And let me tell you, those 5 weeks went faster than a bowl of M&Ms in a room of premenstrual women.

It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience and I knew we needed to absorb and enjoy every moment.   My husband, my son Nicholas and I, in our bright green security bracelets, got to smile and speak to celebrities that we otherwise would have never met.  And I got the phenomenal thrill of watching celebrities giggle and laugh at my creations. It was fabulous.

So, never be afraid to be a blessing.  Or do a kindness.  Because Karma may decide to send you a party invitation.

By FAR my favorite photo.  The grandsons of Ernest Borgnine play with their new Zombie Hand Puppets.  The face of the little guy in the back says it all.  

Take a Tip From Me.

These days, you can't get a cup of coffee without seeing the dreaded "jar".   A blatant demand for free money at any given establishment.  Ok.  I admit it.  I know times are tough.  But something bugs me about the high school kid behind the counter, expecting a tip for the service of pouring me a dollar's worth of coffee.

You see, I know all about tips, having worked in a "tipping" establishment for nearly 20 years.  Most everyone knows I spent many years behind a chair, as a hairstylist, in both Oregon and California.  And one of the first lessons we learned as soon as our student scissors hit the floor at beauty school is that we were expected to *earn* our tips.  It wasn't enough just to give a quick haircut and then expect a gratuity.  We were expected to be prompt for an appointment.  Make the customer comfortable.  Bring coffee.  Magazines.  Was my customer under a dryer for a period of time?  Ok, I got the footstool to prop up their feet.  Basically, our service was expected to be spot-on, for that 15%.   And on a $10 service, YOU do the math!

So, these days I can't help but to feel a bit hounded.  Ok.  Even a bit peeved, that people are beginning to feel that any kind of work at all deserves an additional contribution from our pocketbooks.  Punching a few keys on a cash register and carrying my order from counter to counter doesn't warrant a tip for "services rendered".   I would rather hand that honor to the poor waitress that sits me in a comfortable seat, hands me a menu, gives specials and suggestions, and generally "gives great service". 

But, in the spirit of giving... allow me to give those teenage coffee jockeys a few tips... on life.

*   NOTHING will ever prepare you for parenthood.  Or childbirth.  Or marriage.

*  If someone says "Oh don't worry about it", maybe you should.

*  All men find farting funny.  All.

*  If someone gives you a heart-felt compliment, don't argue.  Just say "thank you."

*  If a dog offers you their tummy, rub it.  You will both benefit.

*  Don't use swear words all the time.  Save them for special occasions.  Then let them proudly fly. 

*  It's better to have fewer friends, but of the highest possible quality.

*  When in doubt, flush twice.

*  Always drive like there is a cop in your rear-view mirror.

*  Don't be afraid of getting older.  That is when the fun starts.

You Gotta Have Heart.

As we pulled up in our packed van, I could see all the warning signs.  People milling about, a sense of tension.  A few feet tapped nervously, with arms closely crossed, signalling the beginnings of battle.  I took a deep breath and tried to find my "happy place" for a fleeting moment.  It was time to enter the fray.  Earth Fair 2012.   May God have mercy on our souls.

Don't get me wrong.  We adore this venue.  It's not often that we can stand on our achievements in our media;  allowing people to see right away that we are Green.  I don't have to worry about being compared with mass produced stuffed animals, manufactured in Asia, by children in sweat shop conditions. 

But setting up for this show.... getting our spaces.... dear lord.

We swarmed the poor volunteer like chickens at feeding time.  Some of us had pre-approved needs that had gone through the proper channels.  Some people preferred the Conquistador method.  (This consists of slamming down an imaginary flag, claiming territory in a loud voice and then participating in the slaughter of any people that come near).  Then, the cries of the dreaded d'Enfant Terrible.  Otherwise known as the "full grown adult indulging in a childish tantrum."

I watched in horror and listened in awe.  Several individuals must have been wearing Huggies diapers for the tantrum they threw.  I had front row seats as the volunteer was verbally assaulted, called names and generally treated like a used diaper wipe.

Really?

Have you ever volunteered?  I mean, REALLY volunteered?  I am not talking about raising your hand and offering to bring napkins and teabags to the next meeting.  I mean, the "roll up your sleeves, get down and dirty" with no pay or credit at the end of the day, save the feeling that comes with making a difference in the world.

I have.  In my 46 years I have done work that I hope will earn me a few extra points when I approach the Pearly Gates.  I washed plates, served food and was a general kitchen slave for an exhausting 10 hours a day, for a full week at Camp Easter Seals when I was in high school.  I have donated my time to talk about my career choices for students.  I have shown women with cancer how to tie head wraps and re-draw eyebrows thinned by chemo.  Back in my "young and cute" days, I even dressed as a barroom floozy in a ruffled skirt and feathered headpiece and "arrested" people for my community Jail and Bail for the Cancer Society.  Even now, I am dusting off my Renaissance costume in order to show 7th grade students how wool was picked, carded and spun in the 16th century.

Obviously, volunteer work means just that.  You volunteer to NOT get paid.  But it goes beyond that.  You also volunteer to put yourself last and your cause first.  You accept that you are not going to be singled out and have a ticker tape parade in your honor.   You are even willing to put yourself in line of fire.  It takes an amazing person to do that.

So, here is the challenge:  get involved.  Teach a class.  Hold a sign.  Pick up trash.  Hold a hand.  Do something.  Be part of the solution, not part of the problem.  You won't regret it.

So, this post is for you Melissa.  You are a class act.

Timberlake and the Trouser Snake

Fair warning: This is going to be an "R" rated posting. If you are easily offended or have zero sense of humor, please close this blog and go back to your Kindle.

Alright... is it just us adults? Good.

Like you, I have fallen into the warped web of "Political Correctness". Everything I do is second guessed. Will I offend someone? Will this be censored? Trust me. This isn't such a far reach. I got my fingers slapped by a show censor as well as having several over-critical moms call me on the carpet about the inappropriateness of an image of Betty Page. In a bikini. Come on! A bikini on a pin-up icon from the 1950s?!?

It's rampant. A couple years back a local art gallery received a complaint. It seems that a VERY abstract painting of a reclining male nude inspired the ire of a toddler's mom. Understand, this painting was so abstract that you needed special glasses, a cheat sheet and a bottle of gin in order to see the offending organ. As a mother, I found this nit-twit's complaint laughable. This (of course) was her first child. A son. And as a mother of 3 boys, I can confidently tell you that boys will discover this fantastic new toy ALL BY THEMSELVES. They don't need a hysterical mother pointing at a slew of oil paints yelling "OMG... it's a PENIS!"

Last week, I settled down to watch "America's Next Great Artist" on Bravo. I love this show. I adore the energy and creativity. But last week, in a nod to street art, I found myself getting a bit wistfully envious. Two artist collaborated to make some randy tigers. As they giggled, they drew some whimsical penises. Wow. Talk about balls. (good pun, huh?)

I found myself wishing that I could do that. But the fear of offending that one-in-a-hundred person is a millstone around my neck. What if they revolk my artist license? Wait. Being an artist IS my license.

Enter Justin Timberlake.

It's one of my favorite viral videos. A SNL short of Justin swaggering around, wearing a suit and a gift wrapped box around his goods, singing about his "Dick in a Box" (excuse me... "**** in a Box" as the censors would remind us.) My mind wanders as it does. Could I make a tiny monster and name him Dick, and place him in a box? But then naughtiness gets the best of me. Why name a monster Dick when I can make the real McCoy?

So, I bought some boxes and some flesh toned socks. I made some small, cheerful penises so I now have my own Dick in a Box.

Censors be damned. Enjoy.

.

Warning: shallow water ahead

I am gritting my teeth.

Once again, my life is being touched by shallow depths. Unlike most shallow water, which may carry a current of warmth, this one chills me. It's a water which bares no substance, nor does it quench any thirst.

It's the shallow depths of the beauty pageant world.

What is it about the beauty queen wanna-be that I find so repellent? Some of my readers may know a wonderful girl who proudly wore a homecoming queen tiara. Maybe you yourself were crowned. It isn't that rite-of-passage that has me so riled up. It's a grown woman squeezing a size 22 ego into a size 2 evening gown. it's the pageant-mom parading a young child before judges, quietly assuring them that while "it's inside what counts", the outside package had better sparkle more if they want to get ahead in the world.

I have known these women. Several of them... and pretty well as a matter of fact. They showed me nothing in their world that had me eager to drink that crystal-studded kool-aid. I knew the women in their personal lives as normal women; warts, pimples, body odor and all. I saw them scream at their kids, belittle their husbands and generally knock people down when it suited them. But, shine a spotlight on them and suddenly, they became the epitome of what they believed people believed them to be. Polished. Smiling. Gracious. Perfect.

Excuse my retching.

What drives an normal women to prove herself more desirable, more attractive, more intelligent, more talented, more (fill in the blank) than others around her? What pushes her to stomp on her competition's toes in her stiletto heels, while she holds that hand in "sisterly support"? What is missing from her life that she values the opinion of a faceless judge rather than cherishing the honest opinion of friends and family?

Yes? You in the back. I see you waving your hand. You are commenting that I simply must be jealous. This is what drives to to voice my feelings in this rant. Actually, there isn't a jealous molecule in my body.

There is something honest and true to working with your hands and heart. I don't wake up and look into a mirror to practice smiling. I don't practice answering questions in words that I feel would best suit another person. Instead, I put my soul into a piece of art. You are seeing the world through my eyes. And, you can either gasp with delight or gasp in horror. it doesn't matter to me. I am, first and foremost, being true to myself. You can see my life's journey. You can join me on that journey or you can slam the door to the vehicle. Whichever you wish, as I will travel this road with or without you.

Maybe together we should create the "Anti-Pageant". All contestants much be at least 18 years old. No moms allowed within 200 yards of the venue. No make-up. No hairstyles. Absolutely no cosmetic surgery. All clothing must be purchased from the local thrift store. All money saved from forgoing cosmetics and clothing would be donated to charity. Next: talent. No archaic, artifical abilites here. Extra points awarded to a woman who can rebuild a computer or change her own oil in her car. Then, it's question and action time ladies! The judges would ask them what they would change in our world.... then expect them to actually show us by her actions. Do you wish to banish hunger? Then, I expect to see you slinging a ladle in a food kitchen (without using it for a photo op!). No crown or prizes would be awarded to the winner. Instead, she could chose a worth charity.

And that, would be the definition of deep beauty. Certainly not shallow.

It Ain't Easy Being Green

Erwin (an Escondido Humane Society rescue) reluctantly donates his winter coat to me.

Nothing like that proverbial "turd in the punchbowl" feeling that comes with seeing an official looking man with a clipboard, wearing an expression that says "Lady, I haven't smiled since I kicked that puppy across the street in Spring of '92". His eyes squint at my work as he asked me in a humor-less voice:


"So, tell me EXACTLY how you consider yourself green."

It's Earth Fair in Balboa Park, in America's "finest city" of San Diego. I am surrounded by thousands of people, browsing hundreds of booths. My neighbors include funky electric cars and vegan fare featuring, I am sure, free-range, no cruelty carrots. Not too many people seem to have a sense of humor... let alone one as warped as mine.

I guess people have come accustomed to 'Green = no humor factor'. To acknowledge being "green" is to plant on a holier-than-thou simper, and speak in a soapbox whisper.

Come on folks. Loosen up.

I took Mr Oh-So-Official on a tour of my booth. I pointed out that my sculptures are hand-made using recycled, sweaters, remnants and vintage fabrics. Almost all of it comes from thrift stores, garage sales and the occasional donation.

The felted wool-works that I show are especially "green". So many local students and farmers have the critter come shearing time, but no need of the fleece. I "rescue the wool" at shearing and then do all the skirting, scouring, dyeing, combing and carding *by hand*. Imagine nearly 200 pounds of wool rescued from local landfills!

How about my gorgeous and funky vests? Created with piles of useless neckties, even the buttons are recycled. I NEVER use "new" buttons. Where is the fun in that?

Finally, I pointed out my ceramic pendants. I use real leaves, flowers and seashells to capture the beauty of nature. You can't be any more green than that.

At this point, Mr "I Have No Humor" has agreed that I have earned my space at Earth Fair. I am indeed "green". But, I do have my twisted humor. I ask him excitedly "Come on! Don't you want to see my recycled cashmere zombies with the retractable guts?!?" He ushers a speedy "No thank you" like I had asked him to participate in a voodoo sacrifice and high-tails his clip-boarded self away from me.

Ok. It ain't easy being green. But it IS a lot of fun!