Saturday had steady traffic through the shop. Some were regular customers, while others stumbled by our door and figure it might be worth a check. I like to chat with folks, ask where they’re from, chat about the weather, perhaps find a common denominator to start a conversation.
A man and a woman came in, she said they were browsing and he looked around a bit and then approached the desk where I was working. He wore a long overcoat and had pointed, sharp features that forged together for an Ebeneezer scowl. Funny how my first impression of him hit the nail on the head; from the look he was giving me, I got the distinct impression that he wanted to step on me, squash me like a bug.
He said rather gruffly while pointing at the wall behind him, “How come my friend, who raises sheep, can’t sell his wool for 10 cents a pound, but you can sell that rug for $1000.00?”
There was something about him that raised the hair on the back of my neck. I didn’t think anything I said would appease his need to stir the cauldron in his head, but his piercing eyes demanded a reply. As not to aggravate the situation further, with head down and quiet demeanor; I tried to explain rug hooking, raw materials, hand-dyed wool, months to hook, etc. I didn’t want the peace and quiet of my studio glow to be cracked with a berating. He replied loudly.
“Well, my FRIEND, who can’t sell his wool, will be using it to insulate his house!” In a few short breaths, he devalued wool and our craft, all the while staring me down as if to provoke a debate on the unfairness of an unjust world.
He wasn’t interested in my shop, other than to degrade it. The woman with him might have forced him in against his will, she wasn’t a rug hooker and he was probably following at her heels with the enthusiasm of getting a root canal. Maybe a potential angst for his companion was released on me. Without knowing, there aren’t enough contrived variables to understand where he was coming from, or whether it was his normal personality or if he was just having a bad day. My mom always said if you make weird faces it will grow that way, perhaps she was right, because this mans face had a lot of dept, wear, perhaps pain. It was a book without a story, a hard outer binding, blank pages torn on the edges, caked with the stains of time.
The fact that he failed to measure the distance traveled between the sheared wool on the barn floor and the finished rug, spoke volumes to his ignorance and I would have needed more information to know why the friend couldn’t sell his fleece. It was a rather blank statement without more insight to back it up. Bitter in his reasoning, he clearly didn’t realize all the hands that would have worked the wool along the way, the shearing, washing, carding, spinning, weaving, dyeing and hooking meant nothing to him. There wasn’t any respect for me or my passion for the shop and craft; he was only interested in trying to take away its value. Interestingly, the rug he looked at wasn’t even $1000.00, he pulled that out of the air to use as ammunition for his critical approach.
He didn’t bother me, I thought him silly. I don’t have to justify rug hooking or my abilities. Unfortunately he is one of many that don’t understand how much expense, time and effort go into making a rug, or a quilt, or any craft where the labour to create the goods isn’t appreciated as part of the value of the finished item. There will always be those who ridicule and refuse to pay a fair price for a hand-made item and quite frankly, I may only be speaking for myself, I wouldn’t want that kind of person to own anything I lovingly created.
Sometimes I wonder if the utilitarian rugs of the past, made from rags to cover dirt and uninsulated floors are haunting the modern day rug’s ability to be seen as a work of art? Is it because the medium is generalized as a covering for the floor whereas real art exists for the wall, coffee table or mantel? Something we walk over or wipe our feet on, with the dirty appendages of the body doesn’t hold as much value? Why is it that a painter can work on a painting for a day or two, perhaps a week and charge its worth but someone who worked two months or perhaps close to a year, painting with wool instead of a brush, be seen as unworthy of being paid for their time? I know education is key and we will drag one person at a time into the mindset until our handiwork gets the respect that it deserves.
I’m not sure why people do and say some of the things they say. My mother’s wise words echo in my head, “If you don’t have anything good to say, keep quiet” and she would also say, “Mind your manners!” a lesson clearly deficient in today’s society. Mostly it’s a lack of understanding. Once educated in the process of rug hooking, once they see the work from inception to finish, they would applaud instead of insult.
A man and a woman came in, she said they were browsing and he looked around a bit and then approached the desk where I was working. He wore a long overcoat and had pointed, sharp features that forged together for an Ebeneezer scowl. Funny how my first impression of him hit the nail on the head; from the look he was giving me, I got the distinct impression that he wanted to step on me, squash me like a bug.
He said rather gruffly while pointing at the wall behind him, “How come my friend, who raises sheep, can’t sell his wool for 10 cents a pound, but you can sell that rug for $1000.00?”
There was something about him that raised the hair on the back of my neck. I didn’t think anything I said would appease his need to stir the cauldron in his head, but his piercing eyes demanded a reply. As not to aggravate the situation further, with head down and quiet demeanor; I tried to explain rug hooking, raw materials, hand-dyed wool, months to hook, etc. I didn’t want the peace and quiet of my studio glow to be cracked with a berating. He replied loudly.
“Well, my FRIEND, who can’t sell his wool, will be using it to insulate his house!” In a few short breaths, he devalued wool and our craft, all the while staring me down as if to provoke a debate on the unfairness of an unjust world.
He wasn’t interested in my shop, other than to degrade it. The woman with him might have forced him in against his will, she wasn’t a rug hooker and he was probably following at her heels with the enthusiasm of getting a root canal. Maybe a potential angst for his companion was released on me. Without knowing, there aren’t enough contrived variables to understand where he was coming from, or whether it was his normal personality or if he was just having a bad day. My mom always said if you make weird faces it will grow that way, perhaps she was right, because this mans face had a lot of dept, wear, perhaps pain. It was a book without a story, a hard outer binding, blank pages torn on the edges, caked with the stains of time.
The fact that he failed to measure the distance traveled between the sheared wool on the barn floor and the finished rug, spoke volumes to his ignorance and I would have needed more information to know why the friend couldn’t sell his fleece. It was a rather blank statement without more insight to back it up. Bitter in his reasoning, he clearly didn’t realize all the hands that would have worked the wool along the way, the shearing, washing, carding, spinning, weaving, dyeing and hooking meant nothing to him. There wasn’t any respect for me or my passion for the shop and craft; he was only interested in trying to take away its value. Interestingly, the rug he looked at wasn’t even $1000.00, he pulled that out of the air to use as ammunition for his critical approach.
He didn’t bother me, I thought him silly. I don’t have to justify rug hooking or my abilities. Unfortunately he is one of many that don’t understand how much expense, time and effort go into making a rug, or a quilt, or any craft where the labour to create the goods isn’t appreciated as part of the value of the finished item. There will always be those who ridicule and refuse to pay a fair price for a hand-made item and quite frankly, I may only be speaking for myself, I wouldn’t want that kind of person to own anything I lovingly created.
Sometimes I wonder if the utilitarian rugs of the past, made from rags to cover dirt and uninsulated floors are haunting the modern day rug’s ability to be seen as a work of art? Is it because the medium is generalized as a covering for the floor whereas real art exists for the wall, coffee table or mantel? Something we walk over or wipe our feet on, with the dirty appendages of the body doesn’t hold as much value? Why is it that a painter can work on a painting for a day or two, perhaps a week and charge its worth but someone who worked two months or perhaps close to a year, painting with wool instead of a brush, be seen as unworthy of being paid for their time? I know education is key and we will drag one person at a time into the mindset until our handiwork gets the respect that it deserves.
I’m not sure why people do and say some of the things they say. My mother’s wise words echo in my head, “If you don’t have anything good to say, keep quiet” and she would also say, “Mind your manners!” a lesson clearly deficient in today’s society. Mostly it’s a lack of understanding. Once educated in the process of rug hooking, once they see the work from inception to finish, they would applaud instead of insult.
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