So, the Washington Square Art Exhibition, weekend one, has ended. Although the days were hot and muggy and the crowds were spotty, it was very worthwhile. I met some interesting people, and I had a few excellent sales. I’m thrilled! I’m also very tired- I finished closing everything up at 2 a.m. last night.
It is difficult to explain, because although it was enjoyable, it was difficult. Showing your art work on a sidewalk in New York City is somewhat like standing naked on a sidewalk in New York City. People stroll by, and you feel so… self conscious. And there is that pressure of the sale, that if you don’t make that one sale, the whole endeavor is not financially worthwhile.
One particular thing about the weekend made everything go very well. One fellow, Fred, whom I had met the year before, and have since become good friends with, invited Margaret and me to stay at the apartment belonging to him and his wife. So, instead of driving sixty miles home every evening, I walked one block over and knocked on his door. I was greeted by a glass of chilled wine, a platter of cheeses, piano playing, and good conversation. I really am so blessed. The mornings were so lazy- we woke late, listened to more piano playing by Fred, and then sipped coffee on a bench near Washington Square.
One thing in particular stood out in the entire show- as I took down my tent on Sunday evening, I saw in my peripheral vision a woman lingering nearby. She had taken a photo before Margaret and I even noticed she was there. I don’t want to come across as melodramatic in recounting these things, but the emotions that passed over her face were so strong. Then I realized what had moved her. As I had taken the paintings down and leaned them up against a building wall, Margaret sat and rested, holding Evan. It was not at all staged.
She smiled, shook our hands warmly, and left. And today, she sent me this image and a nice email. Her name is Jayne Freeman, and she runs a public access program on parenting and pregnancy. As an artist, you grow accustomed to always being the composer, and then somebody comes and sees the very thing you’ve composed in a different light. Here is her photo.