Windfall
When life showers you with unexpected rewards
In late winter, while vending at a pop up, I was approached by a pair of women who introduced themselves as the new producers of the Paradise City Arts festival, now in its 31st year.
They’d seen my work on the pop up venue’s social media and wondered aloud, “Why isn’t she in the festival?” So, they braved the blustery cold evening (one of them hugely pregnant and pushing a toddler in a stroller) to invite me to apply for the show. Several weeks later, I learned that I’d been juried in.
I’m not gonna lie, being chosen for this big, 3-day festival—which has, in the past, been attended by tens of thousands of visitors from all over the Northeast—felt like a huge honor. I was floating on a cloud for a while, really letting myself bask in this unexpected honor. In time, though, my feet touched down and I began the work.
I spent all of spring and summer sewing nearly every day, whittling down a collection of damaged quilts and quilt tops I’d been accumulating for a couple of years and building a body of work that included dozens of jackets, coats, hats, dresses, skirts, kerchiefs, holiday stockings, and pillow covers. I poured all of my energy into this opportunity, excited to not only have my work seen in person by a large and diverse public but, perhaps, also earn enough to steer my business toward profitability after a few lean years.
Friends, it’s been rough. I haven’t been this broke in my adult life and every month is a challenge to cover my expenses. Etsy has fallen off a cliff (not just for me) and people I talk to are simply not shopping online as much as they did just months ago. And while more folks are reporting to me their habit of shopping small and local, small businesses everywhere are struggling to stay afloat. Sometimes I get caught in an anxiety loop, worrying about what the future holds.
And then magic happens. A windfall comes. Not always the kind I was imagining, but “a piece of unexpected good fortune” nonetheless.
On October 10th, Star (my constant creative collaborator and father of my sons) and I loaded everything I’d made and everything we’d gathered as part of our “set” into a U-Haul van and drove to the nearby fairgrounds. We then spent the entire day—from 11am to 9pm—assembling the 10’x10’ booth, a mostly smooth and genuinely joyful experience, considering we’d only been able to manage a soft layout of the booth at home which left us with an outline but not a solid sense of how it was all going to come together.
It quickly became an improvisational dance, with Star up and down the ladder, hanging the shop sign he’d carved from barn wood found on the side of the road, weaving string lights into a open-air roof, draping quilts on the walls, tying pieces of driftwood onto the booth’s pipe-and-drape skeleton. He built a dressing room from two hardwood doors we’d left aging on the side of the house for years and then roughly sanded to a perfectly understated patina, and hung an unframed antique mirror I’d recently found on the curb on the outside.
I kept my feet on the ground—offering feedback and guidance, my heart bursting with excitement, joy, gratitude for our collaborative energy and wonder for the beauty we were making—and, when the time came, I filled the space he built with my creations, the love I’d made visible with my labor: clothes on the industrial rack; back stock in the antique trunk; hats on a metal tree and in a old peach crate; kerchiefs in a vintage wooden picnic basket; quilt stockings hanging on the drapes and bursting from a basket made of rope. A set designed from objects scavenged from the streets or pulled from the depths of our attic, a space that said, “Art is alive.”
When we went home that night, it was with a kind of heightened gloriousness glowing within and between us that I only ever experience with Star, my companion of 34 years. I fell into bed that night comfortable with the notion that even if no one came to the booth, even if I made not one sale, building that booth together would be my fortune.
But opening day arrived and with it many bright spirits. My first visitor was my sweet friend and fellow artist Nort, who quickly gave me my first sale of the day when she popped on this aviator hat—crafted from a Mexican saltillo blanket and silky-soft faux sherpa—and declared it perfect.
Next came a young girl carrying a zippered plastic bag—the kind bedding is sold in—full of garments and accompanied by her father and grandmother. Her people stood just outside the booth, leaving me and the girl, who shook my hand and introduced herself as Savannah, to talk shop.
“I saw you in the book for the festival, the, um, guide, and I wanted to show you the clothes I made,” she explained.
People, I nearly cried. My hand flew up to my heart and I laughed with joy.
“Wow!” I said, “You’ve just made my day. How old are you?”
“I’m 10,” she replied with a shy but confident smile.
Savannah pulled one garment after the next from the bag, telling me the story of each piece in chronological order. “This is the first dress I made,” “I made this for a party last year,” “this is my favorite,” and so on.
At one point, I asked Savannah, “So, when did you start sewing?”
She paused for a moment, her finger to her chin in contemplation. “Uhhh…well, hmmm…,” she said, shifting from foot to foot. “Uhhh, when I was a kid…” she nodded.
I smiled broadly, “Oh, yeah, of course. You know, way back when you were a kid,” I laughed, and she laughed with me, blushing.
“Savannah,” I said, “you are my new inspiration. Thank you so much for coming to find me today and bringing along your beautiful sewing. You really have made my entire day.”
We gave each other a big hug, I thanked her people, and then they went on their way.
The rest of the day then became a series of stories swapped, histories shared, invitations extended, compliments showered (including kudos for what many decided was the most unique and beautiful booth), and, yes, even a few sales made. I was absolutely blown away by how many people had come to the show expressly to see my art, share their art or their ancestor’s lives, and make sure that I knew I was seen and appreciated.
One woman, Bonnie, had seen the work in the guide, picked out a featured quilt coat, driven 90 minutes, and then immediately fell in love with something completely different: the most expensive and luxurious quilt coat I’d made, which was absolutely perfect for her.
Another woman, a van-life nomad from New Orleans who follows me here, drove two hours out of her way to meet me in person and support my work! I cannot overstate my amazement or my gratitude.
The day was perfect, with old friends and quilt-loving pilgrims arriving in ones and twos every half-hour or so, some of them there to shop, but most of them there to stand in kinship with another who shared their passion for preserving these wondrous pieces of history.
The next day turned stormy and cold and, though the festival is held indoors in the exhibition barns of our three county fairground, fewer people came out. I can’t blame them: if I hadn’t been exhibiting, I’d’ve been tucked under my weighted blanket, reading a novel on the sofa. By the third and final day, the barns were like a ghost town, with the occasional stranger wandering through looking rain-drenched and weary. I was weary, too.
But I was also buzzing with satisfaction, alight with affirmation, and humming with a soul-deep gratitude for all of those who’d brought me their stories.
Just 15 minutes before the festival’s end, a woman of perhaps 90 bustled into the booth—her long, white hair a fuzzy cloud, her crystalline blue eyes wide and humor-filled—to tell me about her mother and her German grandmother, both of whom were self-taught, masterful designers and sewists who worked and created their entire lives.
“My mother would have loved what you’re doing!” she exclaimed. “She was a wonderful artist.”
Before she departed, she extended her big, strong hand.
“You’re doing great,” she said with a warm smile, causing me to tear up a little. “Just stay curious. That’s my advice for a good life.”
I couldn’t agree more.
xo,
Trish
Your booth looks amazing! So colorful and inviting
What a lovely story for these dark times! Love your work.