Making the Best of difficult situations as an artist

On the first weekend of October, I set up for my first major Virginia art show—the Chesapeake Bay Art Association’s 62nd Annual Fall Art Festival at Lakewood Park in Norfolk. Nearly 100 artists were scheduled for the two-day outdoor event. The weather reports looked ominous from the start, and they stayed that way.

My sisters flew in from Kansas City just to help with back-to-back shows. We set up the booth in 88-degree heat under pounding sun. The next morning we woke to rain. People rarely browse outdoor shows in the rain, so attendance was low. Disappointment rose quickly. It was easy to share the grumbling with other vendors. Many packed up early or didn’t show at all.

Not every artist reacted that way. Some simply pulled out umbrellas and Kindles and waited calmly, looking up now and then when a wet visitor stepped under the tent. After a while, that felt like the better path. I started noticing the positives: how to manage the equipment more efficiently, how other artists had set up their spaces, and how much I was learning simply by paying attention. I also focused on the time with my sisters—ocean visits, good food, museums, gardens, and historic sites around the Virginia Beach area. We shared wine and movies each night. Getting together is rare since they live states away, so that family time became the real highlight of the week.

Sunday started with Mass. The collection basket never reached my aisle, so I kept the $20 I’d brought and hurried back toward Norfolk. (A quick note for anyone visiting the area: the tunnels can close in one direction on weekends, turning a short drive into a 1.5-hour commute.) I missed the parking lot I’d planned to use and ended up in the same mostly empty lot from the day before. The man that was living in his car, was still there, sitting under an umbrella in a beat-up car to stay out of the rain. Of course that $20 went to him. He introduced himself as Keith, spoke politely about his situation, and was clearly grateful. It felt like a small, positive moment.

I opened the tent and settled into the rain. A few kind customers stopped by, and I got to know the artists in the neighboring booth. By 2:30 the tent started leaking, and most vendors began packing up. I wanted to finish before my sisters arrived at 4:00 so they wouldn’t have to make the long tunnel drive just to help in the downpour.

Tearing down is hard work. I watched other artists and started figuring out ways to save minutes. While I was wrapping smaller pieces under the tent, Keith appeared and asked if he could help. I was a little nervous, but the tasks were many and he jumped in immediately. It takes two people to wrap the larger paintings; he assisted through the entire process—methodical, efficient, and needing almost no coaching. His strength made a real difference loading the heavy bins, 30-pound racks, tent, weights (65 pounds per leg), and the art into the van. We finished just as my sisters arrived. They were relieved not to have to work in the pouring rain. They met Keith, and he asked us to pray for his strength and patience. We did, and we pressed a little more money into his hand.

I left the show feeling positive, even though the weekend looked nothing like the one I’d imagined. It forced me to ask why I do this work. The time, effort, and expense of making and showing art are significant—but without it, none of this week would have happened. I wouldn’t have had those rare days with my sisters, met the people I met, or learned what I learned. And Keith? He gained new prayer partners who believe he is a good man who will find his way forward.

Art, it turns out, is also a means of doing good—of sharing faith, family, and small joys. I’m already looking at the next show.

If you’d like to see the work I brought to Norfolk (or follow along with future shows), visit https://www.pattysartstudio.com/or browse the latest pieces here. Questions or interested in a piece? I’d love to hear from you.