Mr. Write's Page

Hummingbird Lane Art Gallery in Dahlonega, for many years my favorite place to browse the work of local artists and artisans, has gone out of business.

After two decades, in spite of an impressive selection of pottery, paintings, glasswork, woodwork, photography, handmade furniture, and other work by numerous North Georgia artists, the business has closed its doors. It was done in by, of course, the economy.

This is a loss I feel very deeply. My house is peppered with pottery pieces, wood-turnings, and other neat things that came from Hummingbird Lane. Over the years, I’ve bought numerous treasures and birthday gifts from them.

The end came in July. Owners Amy and Todd Strickland, artists themselves, held a “Big Empty Room Party and Auction,” then moved on to other pursuits.

I didn’t know about this until recently, and in a way, I’m glad. I’m not very good at goodbyes and sentimentality. But as a regular customer and a genuine fan of the store, I am truly saddened and disappointed.

A couple of years ago, my granddaughter Maddie gave me a small, heart-shaped worry stone — made of soapstone or jasper or onyx, I’m not sure — as a Christmas gift. (Well, someone else picked it out for her, but that’s a technicality.)

It’s a neat little thing, just one inch long. It means a lot to me, and I wanted a suitable container for it. I went to Hummingbird Lane to see what I could find.

I looked for a teeny wood box or ceramic container, but found nothing of a suitable size.

When I showed the heart to Amy, she readily volunteered to create something. On my next trip, she had a tiny, lidded pottery container waiting for me. It was perfect.

I keep the container on a table in my bedroom. Every time Maddie and Sarah are here, they lift the lid and check the heart. It has become a tradition.

Hummingbird Lane had no employees except the Stricklands. It was merely an outlet for the many artists whose works were shown there. The loss of the store did not mean the loss of jobs.

And that’s a blessing. “The economy” has brought down so many businesses and cost so many jobs.

Even in a small town like Jefferson, a surprising number of businesses have gone under.

We used to have a used book store in town. We used to have a video store. We used to have an excellent pizza place — an independent, not a chain.

For several years, I had photos enlarged and mounted on poster board at a local copy shop. But most of their business came from printing brochures and making blueprints for contractors and realtors. When the housing market tanked, the copy shop closed down. Now I have to go to Athens.

A few months ago, my laundry went out of business. I had to find someone else.

The outdoor equipment/lawnmower shop that I’ve used for several years has closed. I’m shopping for a replacement.

And just recently, in the grocery store, I ran into a local handyman whose crew has tackled many projects for me. They’ve done drywall work, carpentry, worked on the in-ground sprinklers, built a retaining wall, and more.

Until a year ago, he and his two employees worked full time, all the time, all over the surrounding counties.

Now he has almost no handyman work coming in, and his men are gone. He’s trying to start a small used car business.

Back in March, when Amy and Todd Strickland probably knew their time was short, Amy made the following observations in a newsletter.

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Today, all things considered, I think the economy and the weather have had nothing to do with declining sales over the past couple of years.

I don’t think all our customers are broke, but I do believe they are looking for some kind of reassurance whenever they make a purchase. For this reason, we’re having a difficult time, as art, by its very nature, comes with no reassurance.

As sales have declined, I have to wonder why Wal-Mart continues to thrive. And Home Depot, and others.

When I shop at these places, I find myself with packaging that I can’t open, features I don’t understand in products I didn’t know I needed, and constant reassurances that this product is a great value.

I AM human after all, and subject to the same communication others receive when walking through these stores. They talk to me in several languages, explaining, reassuring, and guaranteeing. They uplift my decision-making process until I, too, am convinced that it is the right thing for me to do: part with my hard-earned dollar for whatever is the necessity of the week.

Back here at my gallery, after a trip to one of these stores,  I am painfully aware of the lack of packaging. The lack of reassurances that help Wal-Mart customers feel good about spending money. The lack of guarantees that this product will make you happy, more comfortable, that you’ll enjoy your environment on a deeper level, and will delight any gift receiver.

I can’t guarantee any of that, but I do offer it as a service that I myself have found to be of value. I guarantee that my product isn’t just made in the United States of America, it’s made by someone we know, a person who also breathes life right here in our community.

They are all working artists who put their fears aside and produced something with their own hands. There isn’t a factory involved, but often there is expensive equipment such as kilns, torches, lathes, and the like.

My customers will often ask for something they are used to finding here, only to learn that the artist is unable to produce due to illness, or even death.

People don’t go on forever, like factories. Life is cyclical, and so is the art form that each life produces. We are human beings.

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I miss having a bookstore and a good pizza place in Jefferson. I miss the convenience of the copy shop, and I miss the two old ladies who ran the laundry.

I feel bad for Alan and Andy and Eugene, the handyman team and purveyors of off-color jokes.

But somehow, the closing of Hummingbird Lane, a place three counties away that I only visited a couple of times a year, hurts even more.

I can’t quite explain why.

Hummingbird Lane Art Gallery.

The heart-shaped worry stone in Amy’s container.