The market stall that taught me more about selling than any course ever did

There's a Saturday market in Galway I've been doing on and off for maybe twelve years. Rain, hail, the odd glorious day where everyone's in great form. And I used to think the point of it was to shift prints, which it is, but the real thing it taught me is how to talk to people about what you make without sounding like you're selling.

You get all sorts at a stall. The tourist who wants something that says Ireland without being a leprechaun on a toilet. The local who stops because they recognise the pier or the mountain. The person who clearly loves the work but hasn't got thirty quid and stands there turning a card over in their hands. And you learn, quick, that the ones who buy aren't the ones you try to convince. They're the ones you just talk to, normally, about the carving or the ink or the hare that lives in the field behind your house and won't let you get near it.

The thing that stuck with me is this: I've never sold a print by telling someone how good it is. I've sold plenty by telling them the story of the night I carved it and nearly took the tip of my finger off, or how the block got dropped in a puddle and the crack became part of the print. People want the thing behind the thing. They don't want a pitch.

Anyway. The market's grand for that. But online, I still catch myself trying to sound like a proper business instead of just a fella in a jumper with ink under his nails. And the minute I do that, engagement drops off a cliff. The posts that work are always the ones where I forget I'm supposed to be marketing and just talk about what happened today.

Sure I don't know where I'm going with this except that the best marketing advice I ever got was from a woman buying a print of a heron who said "just tell me why you made it" and walked away with two.

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Inês Costa·1w

I know exactly what you mean about that moment with the person who can't afford it. There's something tender about it, they wanted it, and they told you. That's its own kind of compliment, maybe the truest kind.

The market teaches you to read people. Who wants a story, who wants to be left alone, who's just killing time. You can't learn that in a workshop. Twelve years of Galway weather will do it though. 🙂

Kasia Nowak·1w

That's such a good way to put it, the truest kind. I think sometimes we chase compliments from people who know about art, or from people who could buy, and we forget that the person who stops and wants it anyway is giving you something real. They didn't have to say anything. They could've just walked past.

I had someone once at a small exhibition, a student I think, stood in front of a portrait for so long I got self-conscious watching her. She didn't buy anything, couldn't, but she came back later just to look again. I still think about that more than most sales I've made.

Niall DohertyOP·1w

Ah sure that's the thing isn't it. The ones who stop and look and can't buy, they're the purest compliment you'll get because there's nothing in it for them. No transaction, no obligation. Just someone being stopped by the thing itself.

I had a fella at the market one time, must've been seventy, stood looking at a print of Black Head for a good five minutes. Didn't say a word. I let him be, you learn when to shut up. Eventually he just goes "I know that road" and walks off. Never saw him again. I'd rather that than a gallery opening full of people saying the right things.

The student who came back twice, that's the kind of thing that keeps you going on the days you're wondering why you're still carving the same bloody hare.

Niall DohertyOP·1w

The head on it, yeah. There's a fella I remember from years back, came by the stall maybe three Saturdays running, looked at the same print of a heron every time. Never said much. Third week he told me he'd just lost his wife and that heron was on the cliff path they used to walk. I gave it to him. Couldn't not. And you're right, that moment of wanting and not being able to is more real than any sale. The transaction's already happened somewhere else.

Ananya Iyer·1w

This is so well put. I've been doing the urban sketching thing in Bangalore for a few years now, and sometimes people walk up while I'm painting and ask if they can buy it. I'm always caught off guard, I'm just sitting on a curb, not even done with it. But the conversations that come out of that, people telling me about the building I'm drawing, or that they grew up there... that's something no portfolio or website can give you.

The bit about the person who loves it but can't afford it, that one stays with me too. There's something humbling about that moment. You realise the value of what you make isn't just in the price tag.

Niall DohertyOP·1w

Ah that's lovely. The urban sketching thing, that's a whole different world to what I do, I'm in the studio carving, I've got the luxury of a closed door and a deadline, but that bit you're describing, the conversations off the back of someone watching you work, that's the same crack exactly. There's no substitute for being seen making the thing. The website's cold, the portfolio's dead, but sitting on a curb with a brush in your hand and someone stops and tells you their grandmother lived in that building, that's the real transaction, isn't it. The money's nearly secondary.

And yeah. That person who can't afford it. I've had people stand in front of a print for ten minutes, come back twice, and then just say "lovely work" and walk away. And I've learned to say "come back whenever, it'll be here" instead of making it awkward for them. Because they saw it. That's enough, sometimes.