The Season That Kinda Wasn't...
“Man, I feel bad for you,” my supervisor said. It was a Wednesday afternoon a few weeks ago, and I’d just told her that I’d be in for my full shift the next day, instead of leaving early to drive to an art festival in Jackson Hole as planned. “You can’t seem to catch a break lately.”
“Yeah, that’s the way it goes,” I replied, trying not to smirk at the thought of how expansive the term ‘lately’ can really be.
We’d essentially had the same conversation a week prior. Only then, I was cancelling a time off request that was originally intended for a backcountry photo trip to the Tetons. It was something I’d been planning and really looking forward to for over a year. I’d secured camping permits back in January, spent lots of time researching trails and studying topography, and knew sunrise and estimated hiking times by heart. But a few days before I was supposed to take off, my vehicle started making a funny noise. Too funny to ignore.
I did everything within my mechanical know-how to try and fix the problem myself- said it was probably nothing, turned the radio up all the way- but somehow it persisted. Though Jackson is only about a three-and-a-half-hour drive from where I’m at in Logan, knowing the importance of that upcoming show, and that I couldn’t afford a breakdown, I made the difficult decision to call off the hike so I could take the time to get things checked by a more qualified mechanic.
The next problem, though, was finding one. Apparently every garage in Cache Valley is booked solid right now. The shop I’ve been going to was so busy they couldn’t get me in for two weeks, and that was after a day and a half of just trying to get them to answer their phone. I called a half dozen others on recommendations from co-workers but was told the same time and again. Finally, I got ahold of a guy in a little town near the Idaho border. He was swamped too, but agreed to at least give it a listen if I wanted to bring it up.
That Friday morning I crossed my fingers and made the twenty-minute drive up to Richmond. While things had sounded pretty rough the night before, it actually ran well and wouldn’t you know it, when I got to the mechanic nothing seemed abnormal at all. I described what I’d been hearing the best that I could- it was a low-pitched humming noise and occasional rattle- and after listening with a stethoscope the repairman said something did sound a little off with one of the pulleys guiding the serpentine belt. It wasn’t a difficult fix and given my predicament, he offered to work me in that day. I agreed and drove to the nearest NAPA to pick up the parts for him, and with a sigh of relief two hours later I was on my way. It was too late to salvage the backpacking trip, but at least I’d have peace of mind traveling to the art show.
Unfortunately though, that peace was short lived. Driving to pick my son up later that afternoon, the noise made a resurgence. Then it disappeared again. It came and went every time I drove over the course of the weekend, and so that Sunday I decided to put it to the test, driving about forty-five minutes out of town. It made it out and back without issue at all. I still wasn’t feeling great about things, but at that point decided that I needed to just go for it. I had a lot riding on this show. I’d invested over $600 in non-refundable booth and camping fees, plus several hundred more for prints and mats, and had already spent hours of prep time to get ready for it. I desperately needed to have a good weekend of sales to recoup all of this, as well as cover some upcoming bills. These sales were no guarantee, of course, but that’s kind of the way it goes in this business. You pour everything you can into these art festivals, both in time and money, with the hope that it works out. It’s a gamble each time, but the last thing you expect is to then just not show up.
However, driving back from work that Tuesday night the engine started to howl at me again, and for the first time something made a loud grinding sound. That, too, was only momentary and quickly went away, but it was enough to convince me that I couldn’t risk driving to the show. Yeah, I’d be SOL with everything I’d put into it so far, but not as bad as if I broke down somewhere on the long desolate stretch between services in southeast Idaho. Or even driving back and forth from my campground when I got up there. A loaf of bread costs eight dollars in Jackson Hole. I can’t imagine how expensive emergency towing and auto repair would be during the height of tourist season. It gutted me to have to do it, but a breakdown like that would be catastrophic right now. So the next morning I emailed the show director, and officially withdrew.
And after all of that, come Thursday about the time I should have been pulling into Jackson full of anticipation for the weekend’s show, I was instead finishing up yet another stint at my “day job.” Clocking out that afternoon, I could picture the scene that would be unfolding at that moment on the Art Center lawn. The canopies going up, artists unloading, introducing themselves to booth neighbors and reacquainting with old friends. All the hard work that goes on behind the scenes, the nervous energy and weird mix of trepidation and pride that comes with preparing your display for public viewing. It’s a lot of sweat and swearing, but you’re also riding high on hope. Anything can happen. A good weekend might change the course of your entire year.
Plus, there was a time I’d dreamt of one day selling my photography in a place like Jackson Hole. I’ve worked really hard over the years to actually get the chance to do it. And I have. This would have been my fourth summer in a row exhibiting there. But what do I have to show for it in terms of building a life as a working artist? Here I was instead finishing another ten-hour shift in a ninety-degree warehouse, 160 miles and another world away.
“Yep… some professional,” I said to myself, turning from the timeclock and walking out the door. It’s something that I’ve been grappling with all summer, stemming from a conversation I’d had with another artist at my first show of the season in Iowa City. I’d fought through a lot of adversity that weekend too, and as the show ended, the artist next to me complimented how I’d conducted myself, and had known how to handle everything.
“It’s always good to be set up beside a real professional,” he said.
It was a nice compliment, but what he hadn’t seen was me sitting all alone in a dark corner of the Chipotle across the street a few days prior, convinced I was about to have a nervous breakdown. I’d pulled into town just hours before the festival began following an all-night drive from Utah. I was exhausted and running late, arrived to find the artist on the other side of me parked in my booth space, and unwilling to move with any urgency because she couldn’t figure out how to set up her tent. I quickly realized it was her first show, so instead of getting mad and demanding she get out of my way so I could tend to my own business, I helped get her tent up and secured in place against the days strong winds. This of course put me even further behind and left in a race to get my own displays unloaded and set up- usually a minimum five-hour task- in about two hours’ time. I quickly got my tent up and weighted and was struggling with my walls when suddenly a huge gust blew through. It doubled the frame of my tent over, snapping one of the aluminum roof supports in half. The display walls all came down in a mangled heap. My sales desk flipped over and broke, and a whole box of business cards went scattering down Clinton Street.
It was really kind of a freak thing. The straight-line wind just happened to whip through at the most inopportune time- when I had my walls partially up but not all the supports in place. My complimentary neighbor to the north was also experimenting with his set up at the time and had just opened one of his heavy canvas sidewalls, creating an enhanced wind tunnel effect. Trying to set up in windy conditions by yourself is challenging enough, and in that situation there wasn’t much I could do, other than grab a tent leg and hold on for dear life. There wasn’t much relief in the aftermath either. High wind was forecast into the evening, and I’d had over five hundred dollars in prints damaged due to similar circumstance in almost this exact spot last year. I stacked my wall panels into a pile and secured everything the best I could. Then I did something that I’d never done in fifteen years of farmers markets and art shows.
I threw up my hands and walked away.
That’s how my 2024 season really began. Sitting there all by my lonesome, an overstuffed sofritas burrito in hand, trying not to let the first teardrop fall. Only this didn’t feel like a beginning- just a continuation of the same old cycle. And I only had myself to blame. The storm that hit Iowa City at the end of the 2023 show hadn’t just taken out a bunch of my prints, it destroyed the tent I had prior to this one. I’d been wanting to upgrade to a sturdier model for years anyhow, but higher end canopies can be a couple thousand-dollar investment. They’re pricey, but pretty much bullet proof and worth it if you’re a serious artist trying to protect your livelihood. Unfortunately I just haven’t been able to get over the hump in saving enough money for one, so instead I picked up a cheaper (but flimsier) pop-up model, hoping to buy some time. I thought if things turned around a bit and I had a decent season last year I could invest in the upgrade prior to 2024. They didn’t. And here I was.
Taking those few minutes to step away, get some food and regroup, I knew what I needed to do. I had no interest in fighting the wind for the rest of the night and wasn’t about to hang any of my expensive metal prints and risk further loss. I instead returned to my tent, repaired the broken roof support with a combination of zip ties and duct tape, then just put out a table with matted prints and a rack of note cards. It wasn’t a compelling display that would attract many people, but it got me through that first evening. I returned early the next morning after the winds had died down and set up the rest of my booth. (This was the tact that had impressed my neighbor. A less experienced artist, he said, would have either tried to force things, or just called it quits.)
In the big picture, Iowa City ended up going really well. I know I repeat it every year, but this is where I started my business and the place I still feel echoes its heartbeat. I love getting back there, seeing old friends and making new, sharing images and stories of my travels while also exhibiting and advocating for the equal beauty that can be found right there at home. The Iowa Arts Festival always leaves my spirit soaring, and this year was no exception. I felt reinvigorated, and ready to carry that momentum into my remaining slate of summer shows.
From there came a really quick turnaround, as Summerfest started four days later back in Logan. It’s not easy doing major festivals on consecutive weekends, let alone in different time zones, and with these I was presenting to two very different crowds. In Iowa I share a good mix of scenes, about fifty percent local and the rest from all over the U.S. and Canada. In Logan, it’s more regionally focused. I’ll include a few scenes from Iowa and other places- just because I’m stubborn like that- but the majority of what people are looking for are images from Utah, Wyoming and Idaho. (Of course, for what it’s worth, every year I will have a handful of people at this show ask where an Iowa photo was taken, and upon my response say something like “oh, right next door…” I have little hope that the greater American public will ever sort the whole Iowa-Idaho-Ohio riddle out...)
Logan can be a really tough place to sell artwork. It’s a very conservative town, fiscally and otherwise, and out of the hundreds of shows I’ve done all over the country, this is the only one I’ve ever seen or heard of that has organizers encouraging artists to “price your pieces modestly.” I won’t get into all of the reasons that it’s total BS for a festival to ask artists to undersell their work (while at the same time charging some of the higher booth fees around) but it has never sat well with me, even if there is some rationale behind it. I’ve had my struggles trying to sell at other Logan venues as well but living here now I’ve been really hoping to better establish myself on the local scene. It felt like I was finally starting to turn that corner a bit last year when I was selected to be the featured artist at Summerfest, and actually ended up having a fairly successful show. With that in mind, I decided to double down and put a lot into this years edition. It wasn’t easy, especially as the proximity of the two festivals meant I had to prep for Iowa City and Logan at the same time, but I worked really hard and invested a lot to put my best forward and debut several new area scenes.
It ended up being all for nothing, though, and a pretty miserable weekend. Three very long days standing there basically just twiddling my thumbs in the heat, with little interest from the passing crowd. I only had a few sales- I believe almost all from repeat clients who I’d connected with last year- and while those were certainly appreciated, I otherwise didn’t sell enough to even cover my booth fee. It was the worst show I’ve had in a very long time.
Until I got to Montana, that is.
A couple weeks later I was back up in Whitefish. Logan definitely took the wind out of my sails, but I was determined to bounce back, and with several new Glacier National Park scenes I felt optimistic. It wasn’t happening though. Just like with Logan, the show consisted of three frustrating days when it didn’t feel like I could even give a photo away. Furthermore, I’ve had some weird interactions with other artists at this show the past couple of years- and did again this time. Cynical comments, like a wildlife photographer saying my work is “maybe slightly above average…” as he predicted the success he thought he would have by switching to landscape photography next year. Or a general vibe of being looked down on by others. One morning I was opening my tent and came around the corner to meet the gaze of another artist who was standing there, temporarily booth sitting for the girl beside me. I said good morning, and she responded with the most disgusted scowl, almost as if to say, “why are you talking to me?” and turned away without a word. It was like being back in high school again.
Whitefish, for whatever reason, tends to attract a different breed of artists, and is probably the most competitive of any show on my schedule. It’s really easy to develop a case of imposter syndrome there. That’s nothing against the community- which I love, or the organizer- who I think is great; and I have made one or two friends at this show that I look forward to seeing each year. I just have a hard time not letting the other stuff get me down, and when the sales aren’t coming those feelings of inferiority become even more amplified. By Sunday afternoon I was feeling pretty small.
I think it was about an hour before the end of the show when a man stepped into my booth in what could best be described as a muted frenzy. He seemed rushed, and his eyes quickly darted across my work.
“The guy on the end said he’d cut me a deal on his three-thousand-dollar piece, do two for four grand. You gonna match that?”
Wait… what? It was a lot to throw at someone who hadn’t even spoken to anybody in three hours. I didn’t have anything remotely that expensive on display anyhow, and I quickly realized he was trying to pit me against a photographer friend of mine- which of course, I didn’t care for. I tried to slow him down to talk through it a bit.
“What is it you’re looking for?” I asked, also a bit turned off that he was throwing those kinds of numbers around without even really examining my work.
“I don’t know, this kind of stuff. Mountain scenes. Glacier. Can you do two for one on these?” he said, pointing to a pair of 24 x 36” metal prints hanging in front of him. Neither was from Glacier.
“I’m sorry, I can’t do that,” I said.
“Well what kind of deal can you give me? I want something big. Bigger than this. Like six or seven feet wide. A few of them. What can you do for three thousand dollars?”
By this point the man was assuming a greater tone of arrogance, and I was getting annoyed. It was clear that he cared nothing about my photography. There wasn’t a particular image that spoke to him. I would guess he was probably just trying to fill the walls of some investment property, but regardless, there was no sentiment, no connection, no personal interest involved. This left me caught in a weird place between wanting to just tell him off, but also in the eleventh hour of a horrible show and painfully aware that a sale like this might reset the trajectory of my entire season. I tried to engage him a little better and continue the conversation cordially. I tried to be- dare I say- professional.
“Honestly, when you start talking those sizes, you're probably looking at a single piece being in that ballpark. But I can show you a few scenes that I have from Glacier, and give you some options. Once we narrow down specifics I’d be happy to quote you a price.”
“Ah forget it!” the man said, and hurried out the door.
The entire interaction lasted less than a minute, but those are the kind that as an artist will haunt you long after. Trying to act as a salesman certainly isn’t a strength of mine, and as a matter of principle I won’t haggle over the prices I’ve set. Still, in a business sense I was left feeling like I’d failed somehow. Like that had been a clear opportunity, but I hadn’t been good enough to close the deal. These thoughts begin to churn inside of you, conflicted by the deeper truth that it’s a more authentic connection that you’re after anyway, but then complicated further by a sudden urge to check your bank account balance to see if you’re even going to have enough gas money to get out of town.
The final kicker came a short while later, when I saw the same man and a helper carrying two very large pieces out of my friends booth at the end of the show. I was happy that my buddy had been able to make the sale, but it also tugged a bit harder at the strings of my little existential crisis.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, I’d start having vehicle issues and have to pull out of the show in Jackson a few weeks later, so this was officially how my 2024 art show season came to a close.
In full transparency, there were a couple of other shows that I’d considered applying for going into this fall. Another in Jackson Hole, and maybe one or two in northern Utah. But I was very intentional and strategic in setting my schedule this year, focusing on places where I thought I could have success and wanted to focus on moving forward. And only one of those panned out.
I remember when I was probably in my second year of doing the Iowa City Farmers Market, and had gone back to school at the University of Iowa, I’d sometimes park in the same parking structure that housed the market on Saturday mornings for one of my Friday afternoon classes. Walking back to my car one day I knew I had a sleepless night ahead, needing to stay up making note cards for sale the next morning. But I was so genuinely excited for the market that I didn’t care. I wondered how far I’d be able to go with my photography. There were a lot of sleepless Friday nights back then, trying to figure out my business and balance it with work and school, and I recall wondering how long I’d continue to do this. I promised myself that I’d only keep going with it for as long as it was fulfilling and fun.
The past couple of shows have not been very much fun. And there have been far too many in recent years that have gone more or less the same. Even with that withdrawal from Jackson Hole, I lamented the money I was losing but also felt some sense of relief. My confidence has really been shaken this summer, and I was already dreading the prospect of this show going like those others. The anticipation I'd envisioned while absent from the setup wasn't truthfully any more there than I was. I wasn’t hopeful or excited. I was desperate to try and earn some sales, but at the same time expecting the worst.
Realizing this, I've decided it's time to just call it a season and step away.
There are a couple more things I want to add however, and I know I’ve already droned on for far too long in this issue- I think it's probably long exceeded most attention spans, including my own- but I wanted to take the time to share the story in full. And that’s actually my first point. I’ve always promised that one major focus of this newsletter would be to provide an honest, behind the scenes look at what it’s like trying to make a go in this business- and this is just that. I’m not sharing any of this for pity or because I want somebody to lift me up. It’s all just an authentic look at my journey.
Secondly, this is in no way an ending either. I think it’s time for me to do some soul searching and really figure out what I want to achieve through my photography, and where I want to devote my creative energy overall. I will find a way to keep moving forward with all of this, and a new plan that you can bet will NOT include two-for-one specials for some real estate investor in Montana.
The reality is, for too many years I’ve been trying to build my business using art festivals as the main cornerstone, and right now not only is this not working, too many end with me feeling like absolute shit about myself. (Sorry, I know that’s not professional language either… but it is real.) Kind of like with the tent, I've known for awhile the things I need to improve on, and upgrades I need to make to become more competitive and have a real shot at this becoming my sole profession. But chasing shows all over the country- especially before I'm able to make those upgrades and really do more to stand out- hasn't been the answer. These festivals have become a one step forward, two steps back cycle that I can’t seem to escape, and as I began to realize last year, they're proving more hinderance than help in getting me to where I want to be.
I do want to continue doing shows, and perhaps one day will get back to a point of taking another run at the larger festival circuit. But I think it’s time to just concentrate on the ones that make me feel excited again. And in the bigger picture, it's time to get back to my roots in what I really want my work to be about- connecting with people on a deeper level, and sharing this love for our natural world.
As always, I do thank all of you who have continued to follow along with my journey, tolerating my missteps and incessant drivel and always encouraging me not to give up. I promise that I’m not, and I think as I finally break free from the narrow focus of becoming a full-time professional photographer on the art show scene, and instead get back to just being a photographer, you’ll like the new direction this takes.
Finally, I do plan to make calendars again for next year, so you can expect word on those later this fall. I’m also sitting on quite an inventory of cards and prints right now that I really don’t want to carry over through the winter, so I’m going to try and do an online sale Labor Day weekend to unload some of those (and to scrounge up some much-needed money for vehicle repairs!) If new artwork might be of interest to you, please watch for further information via email and on my social media channels toward the end of this month.
Sometimes I think maybe we just get so caught up in the determination to do something that we lose sight of why we’re doing it in the first place.
There will be better things to come.
