Street Trader

The art of pricing your work.

” I want that one.” I am unpacking my paintings from my case and setting up my stall and I didn’t see the man pointing at the paintings on the floor at my feet.

“That one, how much is it?” he points more determinedly at the paintings. How fast can the brain work under pressure? I need to assess this person’s keeness to buy with his presumed ability to purchase against my eagerness to sell and my desire to hold out for a good price. I need to also listen to the voices of my family and friends who ask, on a daily basis, whether I have sold anything yet and imagine myself going back home saying ‘I nearly sold a painting today.

I look up at the man and smile and decide to look as though I have not understood which painting he is referring to so as to give myself more time (my brain doesn’t work as quick as it used to). I can see that he is pointing to one of the smallest paintings in my collection and he appears to be in a hurry. Infact, he appears to be in a big hurry looking furtively over his shoulder and shuffling from foot to foot. My brain is telling me that he isn’t a big art collector or a gallery representative who is going to hurry back to his boss declaring he has found the next Picasso selling paintings from a dome in the high street. My brain is telling me that this man looks like he is on the run or hiding from some higher authority – possibly a girlfriend or wife.

I pick up the painting and admire it at a distance as if it was a priceless gem. I want this man to realise the work, the effort, the skill and the thought that went into the conception of this piece. I want this man to know that whatever price is placed on the piece, it will not be enough. How can you place a price on a labour of love? How can you value such skill and creativity?

“£20” I say.

“Will you take £15?” he says holding out a fist full of one pound coins.

“Okay” I say, making a too eager looking grab for the money.

“Have you been robbing the meter?” I say jovially, regretting it as the words leave my lips because the man doesn’t smile and he looks more nervous than ever.

“Have you got a bag?” he says.

“No.” but I can wrap it in some brown paper I say confident that I can’t lose the sale now. He takes the parcel and runs – literally – up the road.

The news of the sale is spread far and wide. I tell my wife who tells her mother and soon the whole town knows. This will be the start of something big. Everyone will want my paintings -it is proven that they are a wanted commodity. I am an artist who sells his work.

No other sales today but I am inspired to go home and produce another masterpiece.

Paranoia and reviews

I am better prepared. I have plastic sheets ready to throw over my work should it start raining and my wife is ready to come and collect me should black clouds appear on the horizon.

The weather is cloudy but warm and I set out my stall and begin to paint. What if nobody likes my work? What if the shopkeepers come out and chase me down the street because I am ‘taking their trade?’ What if mad drunken yobs ransack my stall and run off with my works? – looting doesn’t really feature as a passtime in this neck of the woods but you never know.

My fears are unfounded and i only get nice comments from passing shoppers and people who come to eat their pasties and pies in the dome.

I have pleasant conversations with people who either paint or know someone who paints. A couple of people take my business card -I am hoping they are millionaire art collectors or gallery owners but suspect they are tax collectors or other artists who are going to write crazy comments on my website. http://www.the-art-of-richard-marshall.co.uk should you want to check:)

Why the paranoia? Am I not confident of my own abilities? Call me feeble but I do need the positive strokes from others and the acceptance of my peers. I am still craving that written rave review. I have exhibited my works twice in local gallerires but I haven’t had a write up. I have had complimentary remarks written in the visitors book provided at my exhibitions but nothing in the press yet.

So smiles and ‘well done dear’ from old ladies will have to suffice for now but at least I haven’t been attacked…yet.

The weather holds and I go home happy that I can call myself an artist street trader.

Day One

How exciting! I pick up the licence and I am good to go so I go home and get my things.

So how do I get my things down to the dome? I have paintings and a sign and my paints, brushes and some water. I can’t carry everything and there is nowhere to park near the dome.

Wifey to the rescue! She will take me and drop me off with my 9 year old son who is going to busk on his violin nearby.

When we get to the dome, there are some people sat inside eating their lunch. The windows of the dome are filthy and the floor covered in cigarette butts. I will have to bring a wet cloth and a blanket next time. I smile at the people who look at me and my things and prepare to leave. They are obviously under the impression that I am going to try and sell them something.

I set my son up with his music stand and sweet violin playing nearby. This deflects attention away from me as I set up my stall. I place my paintings on the ground and start to sit and paint. I have a sign that tells people I am in the dome and I wait for people to come and look and hopefully buy.

My son is quickly attracting people and they are throwing coins into his violin case. I wait and I paint.

Someone comes in and looks closely at my paintings. I look up and smile and she is pulled away by her carers. It’s a start! Someone is interested. Another person comes into the dome and plonks themselves down next to me and unwraps a bag of strongly smelling fish and chips. OK, nothing wrong with that. Adds to the ambience.

More people coming into the dome! I must be popular! My son is in the dome -why? It is raining. Not raining but pouring. Why am I getting wet? There are no windows at the top level of the dome and the rain is being blown in. I run around trying to cover my paintings. Watercolours painted on to wooden frames will not take kindly to heavy rainfall!

I gather everything and stand dripping wet waiting to be collected by wifey. Lessons are learned and nothing is lost. My son earned twenty quid.

I applied for a Street Trading Licence because I live in a seaside resort that attracts many visitors throughout the summer and I cannot afford the rent for a static shop. The aim is to produce saleable paintings within the £25 -£75 range and sit and paint whilst displaying (and hopefully selling) my work.

The Licence restricts me to one area within the town -a ‘dome,’ one of seven in the town that are used as seating areas for people and are adorned with reasonable looking hanging baskets of flowers. My dome is situated directly in the centre of town on the sunny side of the street where everybody passes heading towards the beach. What could possibly go wrong?

Isn’t it ideal? To have the freedom to set up my ‘stall’ when the sun shines and display my work to people desperate to spend their holiday money? Why sit at home painting when I can sit with my paintings outside and wait for the queues to form?

The nice man at the Council has arranged for a trial period of three months ‘to see what complaints they will get.’ Complaints!? who could possibly complain about an artist sitting, painting and displaying his wares? A clause in the contract prevents me from ‘displaying nudity, political works or profanity’ and I got the impression that cartoons and caricatures would be frowned upon so i am going for swift watercolours and impressionist style oils of local scenes with some paintings and prints from some previous popular works thrown in.

There is only another ten days of the school holidays left but I can carry on selling to the locals and we still get a good weekend visitor trade through September. I may also catch some trade on the run up to Christmas so I am going to be busy.