The Cottage Industry State
Our family has recently endured -- and, dare I say it, actually sorta-kinda prospered at -- our first craft show. I got a bunch of signals,
during the course of this endeavor, that we are, at last, entitled to claim -- culturally -- that we live in Maine. I'm not saying we'refrom Maine, don't get me wrong. We are most definitively "from away". But that's less of a thing, because a lot of folks here are "from away". In fact, people "from away" may not have yet achieved an absolute majority, but I'll bet they are close to majority of actual voters, especially in national elections. It takes effort and persistence to put down roots in Maine -- but one definite step toward doing so is developing a cottage industry.
Maine is officially called the "Pine Tree State", but that is anachronistic. In these postmodern days of rust-belt macroeconomics and a million different attempts at "right livelihood", Maine really ought to be called the "Cottage Industry State". I mean, if you're not making something in your house, off of your land, and selling it to tourists (or even perhaps on the Internet!), man, you're nowhere.
Paul at Paul's True Value Hardware (a veritable local mensch, by the way) up and asks me, "So how'd the show go?" The cashier at the Dixmont General Store, having been informed, one early morning, that we're driving to the fourth day of a craft show, commiserates, "That's brutal. And with the price of gas these days! People just don't have the money to spend." When we moved into our desperate ramping-up period for this first show, our crafter neighbors (one couple who do exquisite knotted-linen jewelry, macrame raised to the level of high art, and one family who make whimsical painted gourds, seed-to-product, on their farm) rushed to our aid with advice, loaner light fixtures and last-minute babysitting. Not only that, the whole family got involved. Lisa's mom sewed the tablecloth for our display table. I built the wooden display racks and trays. Eli and Francie helped a whole lot with business cards and display paraphernalia; Eli even made display racks out of copper wire. (I guess I should probably mention that the actual craft is Lisa's glass bead jewelry. She makes the beads, and assembles them into necklaces, earrings, etc.) The entire family assembled to pass judgment and offer suggestions on the final display-table setup.
It occurred to me at some point that this was a healthy educational experience for the kids, because it allowed them to observe an economic enterprise that was comprehensible to them. Mommy makes glass beads with her torch. When she gets enough good ones, she assembles them into jewelry. When she gets enough of that, she goes to a craft show. Daddy, who can make stuff outta wood, and Grandma, who can sew, help her get ready to sell her wares. They use the computer to make signage and earring cards. Then: if people like the product, they pay money: voila! Economic activity.
Making a living is not usually like that, of course. Normally, Mommy does some weird thing called being an online discussion monitor for ABC News, whatever that is, and Daddy does some even weirder thing, teaching people about something he calls "political economy". But selling Mommy's glass bead jewelry at craft shows: they can relate to that.
As it turned out, our first show was the mother of all shows: Maine's largest craft show, with over 300 exhibitors. Now that is, I have to say, an absurdly large number of people trying to sell crafts in one place. There were three other glass-bead jewelers there, and a couple more glass crafters. Our neighbor in the next-door booth made ingenious wooden puzzles; even he had three competitors. It was a mind-bendingly large craft show -- but the Cumberland show was famous. Famous! One had to be there; it was a rite of passage.
Our neighbor on the other side was a woman who was marketing her husband's (rather good) pastel drawings in novel ways. There were framed prints of lovely Maine landscapes, which weren't selling. And there were coffee mugs and mouse pads, emblazoned with her husband's drawings of 75 different dog breeds, which were selling (but nowhere nearly as well as she wished). She was a friendly and neighborly lady -- but she wore her commercial travails on her sleeve, and by the second day we had named her "Madam Gloom". To hear her talk, only doomed, pathetic wannabe-losers do craft shows -- where profit is impossible and breaking even is an elusive dream. "Is it time to go home yet?"
Our puzzle-making neighbor, on the other hand, didn't seem to care much about making a profit (which was just as well). He was, rather, a puzzle evangelist. His patter was, "You're welcome to come in and play!" He had taught middle-school math for many years, and he'd found that giving students a good, hard brain teaser -- and letting them work on it during class time -- was the best math motivator he had ever found. He carried that insight into the craft show circuit. One the first day he plopped down, in front of me, a box, with one little cube glued in, into which I had to put the remaining six irregularly-shaped (but pleasingly constructed) wooden pieces. I got to work. (At some point over the next two days, I was informed that this was the most difficult puzzle in his stock.) Henry Strout doesn't give out solutions. That probably loses him a few sales, but no matter. It's the mental exercise that really counts. He gives customers a business card and asks them to drop him an email when they finally solve the infernal thing. Apparently two of his teaching colleagues obsessed for over a month on the puzzle I was given. But no matter! I'll solve it one day -- at a craft show. I'll solve it while I'm sitting there, watching people walk by. I swear, so many people were walking by, at this craft show, that I came to call it the "Cumberland Craft Show and Fitness-Walking Track."
It is widely -- nearly universally -- understood that nobody can make a living doing crafts and selling them at craft shows. Our linen-knotting neighbors have done so -- having lived hippie-frugally for decades. But they are one of a small minority -- and to make a living, they have to drive hours-upon-caffeinated-hours to get to upper-level craft shows in Cleveland, St. Louis, New York, Richmond, Minneapolis. They have achieved a level of craft-show success to which we can only aspire! So, you see.
But the thing about craft shows is -- and I really think this is the thing about them; this is why so many people relate and sympathize with the effort they require -- that at a craft show, one presents one's UN-leveraged economic product for the judgment of the UN-leveraged consumer. There is no advertising budget, no media buzz; what you see is what you get. Here is something I have enjoyed making. I present it for your consideration. If it delights you, you may buy it. If not, you may pass on, and no hard feelings. The kids can relate to that, because the grownups can, too -- it is unmitigated by unions, parties, multilateral negotiating bodies, mortgage consultants, network video messages, fashion-industry-peer-pressure or collectible-investment considerations. Do you like it? Do you think it would make a nice gift? Well, great!
It's no wonder one can't get rich selling one's wares at craft shows; it bucks the entire trend of modern consumer culture. But it's a worthwhile experience nonetheless. I can't wait for the next one.
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Lindy Davies is Program Director of the Henry George Institute.
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Also see: Suitcase Traders and the Economy's Informal Sector
Local Currency Systems Growing
Going Local |
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