The dreaded art show aftermath. The part no one ever sees. After the tent is shelved and the remaining work is re-inventoried, after the rental van is returned and the dust settles. After the sales are tallied and the loss is calculated. Then the disappointment sets in and the bummedness. I ask myself questions about my inventory, about my price points, and about occasionally why I'm bothering. All the complements in the world don't mean anything if they're not translated into sales dollars because in the end, as much as I don't like it, art shows are a business. And as the "I'll be back" and "we need to measure the walls" turn to unfulfilled promises the grouchyness deepens. And I still have to get up and head in to the day job to fight with undocumented networks and unstable wireless systems. I keep telling myself that at least I have the alternate income source; an annoying reality when it's at the end of another eleven hour day.
And yet as down as I am about the whole thing, about the dearth of people who promised to be in touch, topped off by my gallery invite being quantified by "oh we don't allow giclees except as bin work" I know that next weekend I'll be at it again crazy person that I am.
