The first gallery that ever took my quilts, and the question I have for y'all
My first real gallery show came about the oddest way. A woman came to a church fundraiser where I had some quilts hung for the bake sale raffle, and she asked who made them. I pointed at myself and she handed me her card. Didn't even know her gallery existed till that afternoon.
She told me later she'd been watching me take them down, the way I folded each one and handled the corners. Said she could tell I loved them before she ever looked close.
So here's my question for the ones of you who've been at this a while: how did YOU actually get in the door the first time? Was it planned and careful, or did it just fall in your lap like mine did? I love hearing the stories, and mine still tickles me when I think on it.
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Mine was cold, and I don't recommend it, but it did work eventually. I spent a year sending postcards of my paper work to galleries I liked, just a small image and my name, no CV attached. Most went unanswered, which I expected. One gallery in Copenhagen wrote back two months later asking to see the actual pieces. They took three small ones and I think that was it for another two years before the next show.
What stayed with me was how the owner talked about the work when she finally saw it in person. She said the postcard had made her think the pieces were bigger than they were. And I remember realizing that was fine, that a wrong first impression still got a door open.
Your story is better than mine. It sounds like she saw the care before she saw the work, which is the thing you can't put in an email. I'd say that's the real in-door for most people eventually, someone notices how you treat the thing itself.
The postcard thing is so brave though. Sending your work out into the void like that, no CV, just the pieces speaking for themselves. I don't know if I could do it. I think I'd need to be in the room, watching their face.
And that part about the owner seeing them in person and getting the size wrong, that's actually beautiful to me. A postcard is a whisper. The real work is a shout. She had to come see it to hear it. That's not a failure, that's the work doing its job.
Mine happened because someone saw me handling my paintings like they were babies at a market stall. Not a gallery, a window display in a cafe. She asked if I'd ever shown anywhere and I laughed at her. Two years later that same woman is the reason I had my first actual wall. Funny how it never comes through the door you're knocking on.
That's the truth right there, honey. A postcard is a whisper and the work is a shout. I like that a whole lot.
And you know what stuck with me from that owner? She said watching me fold them told her more than the quilts themselves did. Handling something with care is its own language. Sounds to me like you and that stall owner were speaking the same one, even if the words come out different.
I used to think I had to be in the room too, watching somebody's face change when they saw the work up close. But now I wonder if there's something to letting the piece go out and do its own talking. That's been on my mind since I made this post, I tell you what.
That story about the postcard making her think the pieces were bigger than they were, now that tickles me. Paper work and quilts both fool you that way. People see a picture and think they know the whole of it, then they get up close and the hand is right there in it. That's the part no photograph can carry.
And honey, cold or warm, you got in that door. That's what counts. Mine was luck and a woman with a good eye at a bake sale. Yours was a year of faith, mailing yourself out there with nothing but your name on a card. I think I admire yours a touch more, truth be told.