One of the scarier parts of owning a business is the shameless self promotion that is required to keep your business afloat. Social media is of course the most vulnerable form of advertising in my mind. You throw yourself to the cyber wolves for likes,loves and a fire emoji or two if you’re lucky. For a woman in her forties, like myself, I find making content unnerving and awkward. I used to kill in front of a camcorder though. I could hide behind the grainy filter of old school technology and always knew where to look.
Creating and selling merhcandise is equally vulnerable in many ways. One requires you to sell your own image and the other asks you to spend the small amount of capital you acquired, in faith, that it will pay dividends later.
But, what if no one wants your “studpid merch”? What if it hangs there in the shop, like dangling dollar signs with tears in their eyes? What if it is a sunken cost? A wastet of money, better spent on groceries or college funds. When you are a business owner with a family, every choice you make feels like you might be stealing from your own own children. At least that is where my mind goes.
I realize this is a ridiculous way to look at selling Heart Gallery merchandise, but what is a diary without confession. I just purchased a bunch of merch. I hope you like it and want to buy some.
If you would like to learn a little something about yourself, do some painting.
You will likely encounter your tendencies, your aversions, your assumptions, your taste, your imagination, your inner critic, your temperment and maybe even a gift you didnt know you had.
If you paint a tree, you will know within a stroke or two if you crave symmetry and order or enjoy the freedom that comes with the chaos that branches require to appear real.
If you are a free spirit that doesnt want geometry to interfere in your personal life, try painting a winter cabin, where the pitch of the roof matters to the imaginary people inside. They will be cozy or in danger depending on your willingness to get the angles just right.
Each canvas asks you for something different. Try them all. See what you learn.
Pick your favoirite painting and submit it to the customer art show!
November 2nd. We will be accepting submissions the week before the event! Contact us to set up a drop off time.
Our son called me from the park. He was playing ball with his buddies and got too hot as a result of a poor wardrobe selection. He wanted me to drive him over a new, cooler ensemble. I thought it would be funny to bring him an atrocious outfit to teach him a lesson about the importance of planning ahead. I didn’t know that day he would be randomly selected by KING 5 to be interviewed about the Highline School closure.
So, there he was, on the news…wearing an oversized cadmium yellow t-shirt from summer camp and gray and red striped fleece pajama bottoms. Good thing he’s articulate, cause his threads were confusing and hillarious .
Don’t get caught in your pajama pants on the news….plan ahead. Book your hoiday party at the Heart Gallery. Availability is limited, so grab your spot today.
A true story about the legendary Fantasy team affectionately known as DOS AMIGOS .
“I want Feely”.
“Gordy, it’s only the 5th round, there are good backs and receivers out there”.
“Bring me Feely”.
I wrote the name Jay Feely on the index card and walked across the spongey carpet to hand our pick to the commissioner. He looked at the card and then studied my face for an uncomfortable period of time trying to read my tell and determine if this was an elaborate hoax. I shrugged my shoulders, being the first to flinch in this impromptu game of chicken, he proceeded to bite his lip, clear his throat and then bellow out “Dos Amigos select Jay Feely”. It was like a record screeching…everything stopped for a moment…until the roars of laughter, so much laughter.
The location was the infamous Star Lake Tavern in Federal Way. It was a miracle that the tavern hadn’t succumbed to death by health department or fungus. But this was fantasy football and they had beer so we were excited to be there.
That excitement quickly waned as Uncle Gordo, the Supreme Amigo, had forced me to take a kicker in the fifth round. Never had I witnessed fantasy football live draft malpractice to this magnitude, and worse, I was complicit as the Padawan Amigo.
Did Dos Amigos win the league that year? As you may have guessed, no. But the memories of the laughter, jeering, random jokes and men acting like children lives in my mind to this day.
The Gal isn’t just a paint and sip studio. We’re a tavern and can be your live draft location. Give us a holler and lock in your date today, 833-SIP-DOWN.
It was an audible growl. A gutteral utterance of the primal sort.
Mike and the dog were in one tent and the girls and I slept in another. I was fairly certain the terrifying sounds rattling the fabric of our tent were the evening vocal stylings of Mike and the K-9, but the girls were not so sure. Only an investigation followed by an “all-clear” would put our hearts at ease.
Thankfully, Mike had tossed an unopened, expired can of bear spray into our tent prior to going to bed as a gesture of good will. I reached under my cot and grabbed the heavy packaging and attmepted to pry it open to reveal the hardcore wildlife deterrent. I read the directions briefly and made sure the canister was pointed away from me. Sadly, I did not confirm that the safety mechanism was properly in place.
I reached for the zipper to release myself into the wild, and then it happened…
It went off like a rogue fire extinguisher putting out our fear and replacing it with searing pain. Kenna, Kiama and I fell to our knees, breathing in fire and coughing out bear spray while we crawled out of the compromised tent; tears streaming down our suffering faces. Chaylee, who had slept through the phantom menace, awoke abrubtly gagging, coughing and wildly confused.
I had bear sprayed my family.
So what does summer and bear spray have in common? They both really know how to clear a room.
Maybe you should take that painting class you told me about. The one Jane is taking.
He could tell that I was in one of my, “I’m just a mom” moods. It would come over me every so often–the feeling that I had somehow lost myself in my effort to raise someone else. We only had 2 kids at the time, but they were small and we were in a foreign country (albeit an awesome one). Mike was dealing with the Global Financial Crisis around the clock, while I figured out how to navigate the Southern Hemisphere solo and keep our young safe from the notorious wildlife of Australia. I was grateful for the adventure, but had given up teaching to get there, and had trouble fully embracing the domestic monotony that sometimes accompanies the early years of motherhood.
Mike was always impressed with my doodling. It honestly wasn’t anything to write all the way home about, but I did seem to have a mild obsession with making shapes and patterns when asked to sit and focus for any length of time. And I was a little jealous of my neighbor Jane and the awesome art she was making, seemingly out of nowhere. So I took his sage wisdom and signed up for the Beginners Still Life painting class at the Ku-Ring-Gai Art Center which was in my neighborhood. ( I also tried the “Get Fit” tennis class that was adjacent to the Art Center, but I don’t really want to talk about it. It didn’t go as well.)
I was terribly uneasy about the class at first; sure that I would embarrass myself or break some unspoken cardinal rule of painting. I didn’t know how to buy supplies let alone produce anything. But our instructor, Eve Pitt, put me at ease. She treated everyone in the room like an artist. She taught me to notice the little things that make a painting beautiful, the shadows and light, the stride of the color across the page, the story being told…
She taught me to trust my eyes and my imagination at the same time. I always thought it was one or the other. But, I quickly discovered that the best art emerged when the two worked together. When trust and courage combined. In many ways it was the very lesson I needed to learn as a mom. That motherhood was still life–not merely sacrifice. And that art can be seen everywhere you choose to look for it. In the child’s shadow on the concrete, or the way spilled milk makes a pattern on the floor. There are life lessons in every creative endeavor if you have the imagination to see them.
In homage to Eve, the Heart Gallery will now be hosting classes for beginning artists that want a courageous deep dive into painting. Although, we have already completed week one of our Still Life course, new painters are welcome to join us for week 2 and 3. A Portrait and Landscape series will be posted in the coming weeks as well.
FAQ: Will wine and such be available to me? Yes.
Do I need my own supplies? No. You can if you want though.
Small business ownership is akin to raising a child.
It needs constant attention. It cries when you don’t feed it money. It keeps you up at night. It wants you to take it places. It laughs at you when you are not keeping up with the latest trends. It needs your time and energy and unyielding support. It is anxiety provoking. It wants attention on social media. It makes you question your life choices. But, it also inspires you and challenges you to do better and be better. It wants to grow and become independent. It cares about its appearance and desires recognition. It wants to be successful. It wants to come first.
It is hard to raise four kids, 3 animals and a business. Because when it comes down to it, the business doesn’t come first. It doesn’t come last either. The hedgehog does. But, it definitely needs more nurture than it currently receives. What you feed grows, and so we must find a way to satiate our entrepreneurial offspring without starving the others so that it can grow and mature and be a blessing to our community, which is what we want for our kids too. And we will.
And so the Heart Gallery would like to recognize all the families that are about to send their kids back into the wild, and all the logistical madness and mayhem that comes with it, by inviting you to a Back to School, All Ages Paint and Sip at Logan Brewery tomorrow night. Let’s paint and sip, and process all that this time of year brings. And in doing so, we will grow together!
There are few things more demoralizing than singing karaoke to an empty room.
Poorly attended paint and sips and wardrobe malfunctions are in the running, but I am not sure either arrive at downright depressing.
We started adding Karaoke to our Heart Gallery event offerings after I realized the only thing better than spontaneous sing-alongs, were sing-a-longs with hot mics and lyrical guidance. All of the patrons we polled expressed excitement about the prospect and promised their attendance.
In reality, our karaoke nights look more like a break up scene in a bad rom-com, replete with a lonely bartender and a DJ dressed up like a wizard. Why a wizard? Because we believed we were bringing magic to Burien. But, I think he might just be making people uncomfortable.
We’ve tried to drum up interest via social media, but apparently my microphone painting looked like a lovers package product and my posts were ill timed. Your not exactly supposed to avoid traffic on the internet. Our trusty DJ even tried old school flyer distribution. But, apparently walking around in 90 degree weather in a wizard costume, passing out karaoke paraphernalia is frowned upon in these parts. We also tried the Silk Sonic approach of just leaving the door open and singing hard to draw in customers from neighboring businesses. But instead of enticing the Angelos crowd into joining the musical magic…we seemed to repel them. You don’t want potential patrons to walk by and feel bad for you.
Last week, I went ahead and just embraced the discomfort–selecting every song about rejection we could think of in an effort to turn humiliation into good humor. Here are some sample.
In an unfortuante turn of events, Mike returned to finance last year. We didn’t have much choice. We had to get back on the hamster wheel or let the Heart Gallery become just another covid-lockdown casualty.
One of the only perks of his job is the occasional work trip to a place you may not otherwise venture. This time, it was New York City, and fortunately, I got to be his sidekick on a whirlwind trip to the Big Apple.
It felt like walking through a cliche–magazine stands, hotdog carts, all night pizza availability, and billboards creating literal giants out of celebrities and products. It felt a little more Blade Runner than Pretty Woman though. Sirens wailed without ceasing and garbage bags were stacked like cheer camp pyramids in front of nearly every building. Wafts of rotting food and other mysterious aromas permeated the air and made it a little tough to do any deep breathing.
My disdain for the city’s handling of rubbish was assuaged by a sense of historical gratitude for what New York has seen and endured; for the open arms that met my grandfather on Ellis island and the entrepreneurial spirit that built a sprawling metropolis. It is in this spirit of gratitude that I headed out to meet Mike for a rooftop work party. I wanted to show up with that put-together-New York-can-do attitude. So I straightened my haphazardly curly hair, put on my best dress, carefully applied red lipstick, selected manageable heels and proceeded to embark on a one mile journey to the rally point where I would meet Mike and his colleagues. Sure, I was a little worried about the hair and the heels, but remember, I had a can-do attitude on!
There were some white squalls earlier in the day that had given the city and I a good drenching, but the showers had for the most part ceased and blue skies were emerging. The puddle situation however, was still an issue. I did my best to avoid drips from the endless fields of scaffolding and pursued shade with great intention so I could arrive looking dapper with a matte finish. But as I passed the endless mirrored windows on Park Avenue, I noticed that my hair was clearly falling victim to the humidity and I was beginning to look like Monica in the tropics. But, the heels were holding up so I continued walking confidently to my destination. After three wrong turns and a lot of sweating, I approached the final block. I stood at the crosswalk waiting for the New Yorkers around me to start jaywalking so I could too. And then it happened….
A truck with no name blew by me carrying with it a tidal wave of filthy garbage infused rain water. It was like the grand finale at the Bellegio with a touch of raw sewage. I screamed like a horrified debutant whose Gucci dress had been ruined by a clumsy waiter. The nether regions of my (non Gucci) attire and my fancy shoes dripped with foul storm water but there was no waiter to blame. Just myself for standing too close to a New York puddle. My involuntary shriek quickly gave way to hysterical laughter. My dress was sticking to my legs, and my saturated fancy shoes made a pathetic squishy sound that let people know I was coming from a mile away. I crossed the street audibly laughing, head down, in shock, avoiding eye contact with somewhat sympathetic onlookers.
“I am impressed that you are laughing,” said the business man who happened to be standing on the other side of the sidewalk–noticeably far away from the swamp water in the street.
“What else am I gonna do.” I replied, trying to re-establish confidence with good humor.
I arrived to meet my husband and his colleagues looking like I had just left a cocktail party/hot yoga class. I explained the situation at dinner, with as much humility and comic relief as possible so they didn’t feel bad for me. Humiliation is usually worsened by pity, so I did my best to do the self deprecating before anyone else could. But to my surprise, the gentleman across the table had heard of me. That’s right, his friend had texted him about “the lady in the blue dress who got rocked at the crosswalk”. Apparently, my assault was noteworthy even by NY standards. That’s awesome.
The moral of the story?
Don’t take the advanced storm drains and refuse collection system in Washington for
granted. And, come paint with me at the Heart Gallery as soon as possible. We want off the wheel.
I once knew a Mum in Australia who threatened her children constantly with NOT getting a dog.
The Heart Gallery–Paint Your Pet Night Backstory
Bella, if you run up ahead of me…NO DOG!!
Hamish, if you hit your brother, NO DOG!!!
I don’t even know if a dog was ever on the table. It didn’t matter. The very idea that a K-9 may one day enter their lives was enough to keep the kids in-line. I used the same threat as a joke for years. It didn’t have the same impact since I was referencing an imaginary dog that we ABSOLUTELY would never own. My hard line didn’t stop the kids from producing multiple “why we need a dog” presentations.
There were power points, youtube videos, dog-related reality shows, and my personal favorite, a full scale lecture with visual aids and spreadsheets. None of these demonstrations had the desired effect. I was a fortress. A giant physicalized NO. Four kids, a cat, a hedgehog and a dying business seemed like enough stress and responsibility.
Lock down takes a toll on your ability to say no to your family.
Mike always wanted a Wire-Haired Pointing Griffon. It was a bucket list item for him. Not me. My bucket list consists of travel and maybe another tattoo. A dog was on my, “how bout never” list. I am not a fan of K-9 crotch investigations and have always been irritated by planning around dog needs. For example, if a dog is the reason you can’t come to Thanksgiving, you might not make it in my gratitude journal (I don’t currently have one but I will one day).
The “NO DOG” routine I rehearsed earnestly over the years, was no match for a global pandemic.
Just as the six of us were becoming feral as a result of mandated isolation, a litter of Griffs were being domesticated in Central Oregon. Mike and the kids felt the stars had aligned and the Lord Himself had brought a puppy into the world just for us. I felt like that puppy was about to piss on my party.
And so…I fought against the idea…valiantly. I brought to bear lists of my own, outlining in great detail why dogs make life harder. I told stories of my childhood pet, Wheelow, who was a biter, and liked to dance fight. I reiterated Mike’s horror stories about Gus–Gus, who was kicked out of obedience school. I pointed at my deep and abiding fear of pit bulls due to an unfortunate incident I witnessed circa 2004. My cries of “NO DOG” were met with locked arms and wide eyed longing–my red flag discarded and replaced with puppy pictures. Their strategy was impressive and deliberately designed to hack away at my resolve. Each puppy they placed in front of me had a bow around its neck with little description. Mr. Blue–a gentle giant with a penchant for art. And Mr. Red–loves people and long walks on the beach. Mr. Black–has a sweet disposition and intelligence. I added the art and beach part, but the rest is true. They were irritatingly cute.
I started to feel angry at the family for putting me in this position. I didn’t want to be the bad guy. I didn’t want to keep my people from getting to love a dog. We were home all the time, growing weary, our business was shut down, and I was in a dark place as I dealt with the passing of one of my best friends in the whole world–someone who just happened to love dogs as much (if not more) than she loved people. In a weird way, I felt like continuing to stand my ground was passing on an opportunity to love something that she did.
So, I folded.
Enter Anchor
Anchor
It’s downright cliche–a pandemic puppy. An animal that everyone loves and I take care of. I should give more credit to Mike. He has enjoyed more than his fair share of puppy care, but I did all the late night work. Day three, I was up all night in my closet, cursing my family and trying to love this fuzzy, needy little creature with an underdeveloped bladder. My heart strings were plucked, but all I could hear in my head like a broke LP was “what is the upside”.
The Upside
I think I love my dog. He presses down on my heart (literally) when I am overwhelmed. He looks at me with compassion when I am doing it wrong. He forces me to walk faster than I otherwise would and I think he might even love me.
Story Time With Heather Pasley 