I really wish the Universe would quit trying to help me grow as a person.
Part One of Three
Sometimes you have to let your brain out to wander and graze. I’ve been making an effort to do that lately and I thought I’d share some of my brain’s ruminations in case they might be useful to someone else. Or maybe it’s all just self-indulgent claptrap, but either way, the shit needs to get out of my head. For your sake, I’m breaking the ruminations into three separate posts because no one needs to be stuck in side my brain too long.
Rumination Part One: I really wish the Universe would quit trying to help me grow as a person.
Springtime is prime season for artists to apply to all the juried summer art festivals. For the first time ever, I am applying to a few of the Colorado festivals this year. Every application requires a ‘live’ photo of your booth setup — they wanna make sure your display isn’t gonna bring their fancy-schmancy vibe down and make the attendees wonder if they really should be spending $6500 on a framed pencil. (They should not).
No problem, I thought, I don’t have a photo of my booth because I’ve never had a booth but I’m sure I can create a reasonable facsimile with no supplies and very little time.
The plan was simple. I’d just use the little tent we got for sitting in shady comfort at the bluegrass festival. Then I’d buy a cheap folding table with a cheap cover and some cheap shelf units and cheap display stands (cheap + cheap + cheap = not at all cheap) and fill the whole enchilada with a few art pieces I’ve kept for myself. If I also Photoshop in the non-existing pieces that I intend to paint, I should have enough to fill a booth. And if I start painting now, by show time, I will have enough inventory built up to pass for a genuine exhibition, considering that most of my customers will want to order a personalized piece, not buy something off the shelf, so it’ll all be good by July. See? Easy peasy.
First application: the Broadmoor Traditions Fine Arts Festival in Colorado Springs. Deadline: three days away. Furiously clicking away on Amazon, my credit card near the melting point, I pushed my Prime two-day delivery guys into the redline — they were screeching up to my doorstep in a nonstop frenzy — until finally, all my ‘cheaps’ had arrived with plenty of time to spare (i.e. 13 hours to deadline).
That’s when the time suck countdown began.
My cheap display stand was an unacceptable smudgy grey color and had to be repainted black before I could add the zebra print wallpaper — subtract 2 hours.
The cheap shelf units were an infuriating pile of loose screws, mislabeled shelves and assembly instructions written in what I can only assume was ancient Sanskrit mixed with Mandarin Hanzi and cat scratches. Subtract 2 hours.
I set up the tent in the back yard and instantly, Colorado went all Colorado-y, blasting my poor little bluegrass shade tent with 60 mph wind gusts and causing it to suffer what any decent architect would accurately deem “substantial structural damage.” It was a twisted pile of aluminum and torn polyester fabric. Subtract 1 hour.
Me: Ok. I can still do this. I’ll just run to Target and get another tent.
Target: Not so fast. All our tents are blue; art shows require white.
The Walmart two towns over had white tents. Subtract 1.5 hours round trip.
I set up my new white tent, this time carefully staking it to the ground and adding sandbags. Then I started moving my not-fully-dry display stand and not-fully-assembled shelves (a lot of zip ties and tape were involved) into the tent, only to be hit in the back of the head by a tent leg as it somersaulted across the yard because the wind was still being an asshole. Aaaand back to Walmart. Subtract 1.5 hours round trip AGAIN.
I built the third tent — the last one in Walmart’s inventory — and tied both its back legs to our 8-foot fence. I set up all the display shelves and stands, the table, placed the bags and jackets in a carefully curated artistic array and stepped back to start taking photos … and the entire tent flip backwards over the 8-foot fence it was attached to. Subtract 2 hours. Add tears.
With three hours left until the deadline, the nonsensical railing at Mother Nature began: “Fine. You can have the fucking tent, you gale force twatbucket!” paired with much hurling, flinging, and chunking of tent bits, chairs and tables.
Right. Deep breath. I’d just have to set the display up by itself, then Photoshop the tent into the scene along with a substantial portion of the artwork. Subtract 2 hours and 59 minutes.
With seconds to spare, I upload my final booth photo-concoction, press submit and instantly get an error message saying my photo is too large to upload. Edit the resolution, re-upload, press submit and voila! I have missed the deadline by 32 seconds.
Normally, at of these mishaps, my first instinct would be to interpret the annoying obstacle or setback as a “sign” that I shouldn’t be trying this.
My lack of confidence would have declared, “Clearly, when the Universe throws this many hindrances in my path I am supposed to read the fucking room and give up already.” But this time… yeah, I totally did that again. “Fuck it, I’ll try again next year.”
At least, that was my first reaction. But then I heard a brand new voice in my head, a composed, steadfast voice asking, “Is it the Universe sending me a sign or is that fucker just trying to teach me perseverance?”
So I did a brand new thing. I kept going. Every time. When I missed the deadline, I took a screenshot of my application with the time clock in the upper corner marking the 32 seconds of tardiness and emailed it, along with an explanation of the photo sizing issue, to every festival contact I could find until the judging committee agreed I could submit my entry. Aaaaand I was waitlisted.
Still feels like a victory, though.