What is art? What is commerce? And where do I fit into that conversation?
It’s a question I’ve been wrestling with for a long time. One that has followed me throughout the years as I’ve built Farmer’s Son Co. I don’t think I ever set out to be an artist. In fact, I spent years not seeing myself as one, even when my clients and peers did.
I’ve always just been the guy figuring things out, chasing an idea, trying to build something from nothing.
There have been artistic moments, sure. But those moments were wrapped up in a lot of other things - learning to run a business, designing packaging, fulfilling orders, loading my truck with boxes to haul to markets, trying to find an audience for my product, pitching to retailers, making sure there was enough money to pay the bills. I’ve always looked at things through the lens of a business owner first, because that’s my background.
I spent a decade as a retail buyer. I’ve designed kitchens. I’ve worked in paint and building materials. And before all of that, I spent my early years working on the farm, dreaming of getting out and making a life somewhere else. I didn’t really have the luxury of thinking about ‘art.’ I was thinking about survival, about carving out something for myself, about making money so I didn’t have to stay where I was.
But somewhere along the way, I became an artist.
It still surprises me when someone comes up to me in public and says, “You’re Farmer’s Son Co.”
Yeah, that’s me. And every time, I’m a little caught off guard. Even this many years in. Because I still feel like the guy behind the counter, behind the workbench, behind the screen, sitting at my desk, doing what needs to be done. I don’t always put myself out there the way I once did. Maybe because I’ve grown weary of markets and continuously trying to pitch myself and my story, maybe because I’ve learned I need to take care of myself. But somehow, my story has resonated. And that humbles me.
What really stops me in my tracks, though, are the moments when people tell me they have a candle they refuse to burn because they know I don’t make it anymore. Or when they show me pictures of their cupboards, filled with pieces they’ve been saving. Holding onto them, treasuring them, because they mean something beyond just being a candle in a tumbler.
That’s when I start thinking about artistry.
Confidence Is New to Me.
For a long time, I didn’t have confidence in myself. And to be honest, it’s still something I struggle with sometimes.
It’s funny to admit that, at nearly 40, I’m just now starting to feel it - starting to believe in my own work, my own value. But the truth is, I wasn’t brought up believing in myself. I wasn’t raised to think that what I created mattered or that I was capable of building something important. On our farm, I was just trying to get through each day, each season.
So much of my journey has been faking it until I made it. Just pushing forward, even when I didn’t feel sure of myself. Even when everything felt risky. Even when I wasn’t convinced I was good enough.
It’s taken years of therapy. Years of people, friends, mentors, clients, drilling it into my head: You’re doing a good job. You’re doing a good job.
And even still, there are days when I don’t feel it.
But I keep going. Because at this point, I know that doubt doesn’t mean failure. And just because something feels uncertain doesn’t mean it’s not worth pursuing.
But not everyone sees what I do as art.
I’ve had a number of galleries turn me down while inviting my peers in to join their markets, as if what I make doesn’t count. As if spending months (and sometimes years) handcrafting, testing and perfecting a fragrance is somehow less creative, less intentional, less worthy of being called art. Because my work is packaged and sold, because people burn it and enjoy it, it doesn’t belong in their curated spaces. It’s commerce, not art.
And then there have been the corporate projects.
It was supposed to be a celebration - two small-town boys who had gone on to do big things. A major local company, one that prides itself on local & rural roots, approached me to collaborate. They talked about supporting a Winnipeg artist, about how our values aligned. It was supposed to be about exposure, about recognition, about celebrating what I had built.
Except, it wasn’t.
They were the ones getting the recognition. The big business. The one that had already “made it.” They used my name, my product, my story to make themselves look good. They knew how much I worked. They watched me make these candles by hand. They saw the process, the time, the effort.
At first, there was respect. They placed a few small orders and I felt like maybe this was a partnership. But when it came time to really commit, when they needed to place a larger order, when they wanted to grow the relationship, everything changed. They balked at my pricing. They wanted the art but didn’t want to pay for it.
So, I walked. I don't work for free. Even if sometimes it's felt like it.
And then there was the stockist.
One of my very first retail partners, a place that prided itself on championing artists, "supporting" local, uplifting creative work. They helped me build my brand, but only on their terms. Only on consignment for many, many years - even long after I'd proven myself.
At the beginning, I accepted it. I told myself, “This is what you do to get in the door.” I thought that maybe, over time, things would change. That maybe, at some point, the respect would come.
It didn’t.
I was their top-selling consignee for a very long time. Year after year, I moved more product than anyone else. But still, no wholesale orders - not even the idea of entertaining it. No investment in my work, no financial commitment. I was expected to be grateful for the exposure while tens of thousands of dollars worth of my product sat on their shelves, unpaid for, as they used the success of artists like me to import mass-produced giftware from foreign & national brands. When I finally put my foot down - when I threatened to walk, to tell the truth about how they really operated (only wanting to pay for product that they could flip on Amazon) - only then did they agree to pay me for my work. Only then did they acknowledge my value.
Retailers love to talk about how they support local, how they lift up artists and makers. But too often, it’s just a marketing angle. The reality is, they’re making money off the backs of artists who aren’t being paid (or aren't being paid enough for their artistry and the work that goes into their art).
And I’ve realized, nearly a decade into this, that I don’t want to work with people who don’t respect me. I don’t want to fight for scraps while someone else profits off my labour and name. If I’m going to put my energy into something, if I’m going to create art, or if I’m going to focus on commerce, I want to be the one who benefits. At this point, I need to be the one that benefits. It's been a decade of slogging away.
So, do I make art?
Yeah. I think so.
But even more than that, I’ve learned that my work is worth something. And so am I.
