To Market

Reflections on being rooted amongst the foot traffic of First Fridays

Picture me, bedraggled and hungover, mid 20s- on the streets of Ireland. I’m tired, I’m malnourished, I’m deeply alive.

Muddled oil paintings of the sea scattered around me, and a sign. I don’t remember what the sign said exactly, but it was something along the lines of “For Sale.” I told myself I’d do it, and I did for a day or two. Trusted in something larger than myself, and waited to see if anyone would want something I made.

The audacity of it.

I’ve always wondered- am I even invited? To what exactly? The act of sitting on the side of the road with your work is inviting yourself. Which seems presumptuous. It takes a bit of sass. Or maybe thats just my perception, being someone who has always battled self doubt.

Well, that early 20s time of “sneaking into the party” has sort of returned, but in the form of being almost 40 and more than inviting myself to the party.

“I’m here”. I say. And I don’t apologize for it.

So strangely hard, but also easier each time. I’m “working”, but at a job I 100% create for myself. A personalized office, different each time I set up. A table with each item considered and agonized over, and I deeply enjoy the process. I sat there tonight, fairy lights twinkling, wrapped in a fuzzy brown blanket, and I waited.

For connections, synergy, alignment. And three times, I met kindred spirits. They saw my work, and something clicked.

Money is fascinating. I find myself thrilled at being supported financially by something I create, and letting the work go is at first sticky and emotional but after it departs I feel almost as if I now have room for more, and I don’t feel stagnant. Something got set free.

The money almost feels unimportant, but its not. Its something that helps my life continue and helps me thrive. It feels invisible, a strange exchange for an image I do care deeply about.

There is a kind of alchemy to this new process, an almost indescribable sense of accomplishment, at navigating intangible and almost untrackable movements of other peoples imaginations.

I think of myself when I have been at art fairs or festivals, and felt drawn to something. You just know. Its love at first sight, it calls to you. That moment is nothing short of magic. A siren song, a sacred message. A dream you had, that someone else saw without you.

Energies collide.

Veins of lit paths, hidden underground. Each time I invite myself to the market, the path lights up and rises to the surface.

“This way” it says. “Now that way.” A strangely silent yet insistent relationship.

The buzz of the market can easily overwhelm me, but it hasn’t. I am grounded in my own language and I am sitting, and waiting.

For other people to recognize it and who speak it too.

Quiet amongst the motion, the manic jangling of humans mingling. And there, in the whirlwind, a few moments. Shimmers in the darkness, lit paths leading us home.