Damaged Corners

Damaged corners

The first original artwork I ever sold had damaged corners. Not metaphorically. Literally.

I had dropped it at an indoor market and it landed on a tiled floor. Because the artwork was created on a cradled wood board, two of the corners were smushed in the fall. I remember feeling so disappointed when it happened, cursing my clumsiness, because it was one of my favourite pieces. I’d always hoped someone might buy it one day.

I sighed, acknowledging that it would now be a display piece only. Still serving a purpose, but no longer good enough to sell.

A few months later, at another market, someone I knew came to my stall with her adult son. They looked around, bought some cards, then wandered off to have a Devonshire tea in the tent opposite my table. As they sat there, I noticed him glancing back at my artwork a few times.

Eventually, they returned.

“I’ve been looking at your work,” he said. “I want to buy your art.”

Immediately, I assumed he meant a print. I felt excited because prints are one of the bigger purchases people make at my markets, and it means so much to me whenever someone wants to take my work home with them. Knowing that something I created will hang on a wall in someone’s home or office, becoming part of their everyday life, is such an honour.

But he was pointing to the original artwork. The damaged one.

My brain short-circuited. My thoughts started racing. The rest of me froze.

Is he for real? He wants to buy the original?

But it’s damaged. Dammit. Why was I so stupid in dropping it?

I can’t sell him that.

I stumbled on my words as I pointed out the corners. I apologised for the damage.

“Oh,” he said. “I didn’t even notice that. I was just drawn to the image. I love it. It reminds me of a friend of mine.”

While I was focused on the damage, he was focused on the connection. 

What we notice vs What others notice

I think we often assume people see us the way we see ourselves. We zoom in on the dents. The awkwardness. The imperfections. The places where life has knocked into us a little harder than we expected.

But other people are usually experiencing us as a whole person, not a collection of flaws.

Just ... us.

Sometimes they are drawn to us because of the feelings we create, the warmth we carry, the honesty we offer, or the way something about us reminds them of someone they love.

That day at the market taught me something important about art, but also about people. The value was never reduced simply because I could see the blemishes.

The most unpolished sale possible

The whole interaction was awkward and unpolished.

He asked how much the artwork was, and my mind went completely blank. I had calculated prices before, but in that moment I could not remember a single one of them.

So I hesitantly named a number that felt reasonable. Not too cheap and selling myself short. Not too expensive, considering the imperfection.

He bargained me down by ten dollars and I instantly agreed because honestly, I was just thrilled that someone wanted the artwork at all.

I didn't have proper packaging with me. I hadn't even wired the back yet.

Nothing about the interaction felt slick or matched the glamourised version of art sales I'd imagined.

But none of that seemed to matter.

He was stoked to be taking this artwork home with him. I was stoked because something I had created was meaningful and had connected with another human being. And that was enough.

The kind of business I want to build

I’m actually really grateful that this was my first original artwork sale. It lowered the pressure in the best possible way.

If I can sell artwork with damaged corners, while stumbling over my words, without ideal packaging, and while completely improvising the pricing conversation … then maybe I don’t need to perform professionalism perfectly in order to connect with people.

Maybe authenticity matters more. Maybe people are looking for connection, not perfection.

That experience has stayed with me as I continue building my creative business. It reminded me that I don’t need to become someone else in order for my work to matter.

I still wanted to learn from the experience. My display pieces now all have wire on the back. I’m still learning the practical side of running a business.

But I can show up just as I am.

The damaged corners didn’t stop someone from seeing beauty in the piece. I think there’s something really special about that.

Reflection

What are the "damaged corners" you notice most in yourself?

Is is possible that other people are seeing something even more beautiful and whole than you realise? 

Let's Stay Connected

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