Staying true to my explorer nature, I ventured into the Renegade Crafts fair. My sole purpose was to look around. I stood in a very long line to get in. There were a lot of people and a great number of stands showcasing all kinds of items. The first one I saw featured huge paper flowers arranged beautifully. Next to it, I saw a kiosk where they would take your photo and read your aura. I regret not stopping there; it would have been an interesting experience.
As I walked through, I saw jewelry, candles, bamboo clothing, paintings, and more, all handmade by artists from the San Francisco Bay Area. Despite how tempting it was to get closer, I felt distant. I avoided contact with the artists, afraid that if I showed interest, they would invite me to chat. I wondered what I could say to them, what common ground we might have.
So, I decided to change my focus. I concentrated on observing the different logo designs. Here, I can find inspiration, I thought, and after seeing about thirty logos, I reaffirmed my theory that a logo is just an identifier. As a designer, I firmly believe that a logo exists to identify the company, not to tell a story or convey a brand’s values, mission, vision, or past. It’s simply a symbol. Hence, the name “logo.” We must stop weighing the logo and pay more attention to the product or service and how its story is told.
Very few, if any, of the logos at the arts and crafts fair were there to tell me a story.
That, I thought, was the artist’s job. But I realized that it wasn’t even the artist who did it. It was the products that began speaking to me directly. Not the logo, nor the kiosk, not even the creator. It was a moment of revelation: while observing, appreciating, and touching the products, the story came to life. A story that existed only between the product and me, in the intimacy of that encounter, far from the artist and even farther from the logo. It’s like my writing: the words tell the story the reader wants to hear. The connection is with the words, not with me, the book cover, or the artwork I choose for my social media posts. Everything has value, of course.
I had walked through the fair in that distant mood, observing without interacting, in less than an hour. Then I returned to the first kiosk and started my walk again, this time trying to interact more and paying attention to the artists. Some seemed indifferent, detached from their creations, absorbed in their phones or thoughts, while others watched the crowd with exhaustion, hope, and perhaps doubt. Then, something shifted in me. I relaxed, got closer, dared to touch products, try them on, and speak with the artists. I’d say, “How lovely,” “How original,” “Congratulations, I love it.”
Finally, I stopped at a kiosk that sold pressed flower artwork. I took my time to choose my favorite print, compliment the artist, and make my purchase. That was my last stop.
I left the fair satisfied, happy that I allowed myself that solo experience, that I approached the works, and that, in the end, I bought something I truly appreciated. It was a great experience. I explored more than I had imagined. And that’s the beauty of exploring: you discover so many things. Among them, I learned about myself, artists, art, and pressed flowers preserved in books for months, which are then made into artworks and, from them, prints—one of which now sits in my home.
And how did those flowers get there? Through exploring. Exploring the meadows, the flower shops, and the gardens, observing their shapes, choosing colors, delicately pressing each one between the pages of immense books, and having the patience to craft them into a design that, in time, would captivate the right person to give them a space in their life.
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