Image by Laszlo Ilyes
When time comes calling
A friend is very ill. We used to be close, but drifted apart, as friends sometimes do. When I heard the news, I sent her a message. That I was thinking of her; that she didn’t have to reply if her social capacity was on overload.
She just received more bad news, which she’s accepted with more grace and good humour than I could ever manage. She thanked me for writing.
“I hope you are well and happyâ€”and creatively engaged.”
Image by Bradley Gordon
This is part two of a series dedicated to retail craft and art shows. Part one was about marketing, and how creatives can no longer depend on show organizers to connect with their customers. Today it’s about how one simple (and painfully common) mistake drives existing customers away.
Words you don’t ever want to hear
I spent nearly 10 minutes looking for a parking spot, then walked three stinking blocks in freezing drizzle. Then I see your vehicle parked less than 100 feet from the door (maybe next time you should take your decal off the window).
Then I get the unparalleled privilege of paying $7.50 for admission to the building, and to put the sprinkles on my soggy cupcake, when I finally find your booth, you don’t look up from the book you’re reading.
I can get better parking and deal with equally disinterested people at the mall.
The customer who won’t be back
Do you really know where your customers are?
Customer traffic has dropped significantly at many retail craft shows and art fairs. Some of it has to do with poor marketing, some of it has to do with competition, but there’s another reason people walk away.
It also applies to high end shows and online selling.
The reason is multi-faceted, but very simple: the customer has been dropped from the equation.
Image by iMorpheus
A universal portrait of dread
There’s no place like the dentist’s chair to contemplate all possible meanings of the word “discomfort.”
I lay there, face numb, jaw forced open with exotic devices made from steel and latex. A tiny television screen, meant to distract, was mounted in the corner of the room, sound emanating in one ear from an ill-fitting set of headphones. Competing with that was the tinny sound of music from somewhere in the ceiling (not even remotely to my taste), and shop talk between the dentist and her assistant, just inches above my head.
All of it was drowned out by the siren song of the drill as it resonated off old, cracked metal fillings. (When I say “siren,” I refer to the sound of emergency vehicles. Interpret it as you wish.)
Suffice it to say I was conflicted about the visit.