The Esplanade Market – Final Call (Now Boarding: Freedom)

After decades of laughter, weather wars, and sharing my work with some truly unforgettable characters (and a few I wish I could forget), the time has come to pack up the prints and call it a day. A massive thank you to the legends — from collectors with walls bigger than the MCG and wallets smaller than a meat pie at the footy — you made it all worthwhile. To the wanderers who promised to “come back later” and disappeared into the St Kilda Bermuda Triangle – never to return, you kept hope alive. For five minutes! 😅

To the business card collectors — I’ll file you under “Maybe”, right next to “Never." To the curious ones who asked about every location, camera, lens, and the direction to the toilets — your thirst for knowledge is unmatched. And to those who still can’t tell the difference between a photo, a painting, or a drawing — I genuinely admire your imagination (and concern for your eyesight). To the ones shocked and offended when I asked them not to take close-ups of my work like they were shooting a product catalogue. I’m sorry. Kind of. Well, not really.

That’s a Wrap 🎬

No more stallholder politics. No more market meltdowns, shade wars, or hailstorms from hell. I’m done with gale-force winds, sideways rain, and triathlons that block every road except the one we need for parking. I’ve had enough of stallholder drama over centimetres of space, and food trucks that are somehow both deafening and smell like a burnt onion dream. I’m done with jam-fingered browsers.

No more dogs marking their territory on my stock as I try to set up, or scooter riders tearing down the Esplanade like they’re in time trials for the Melbourne Grand Prix. And the cockatoos! Dropping chunks of palm bark — hitting cars, nearly knocking people out, and covering my stall in a mess. No more obsessive BOM checks every six minutes. And my free tech support for other stallholders? Permanently offline. Try turning it off and on again.

The black market umbrella has officially come down! The gear’s packed. The knots in my shoulders have finally unclenched — I’m free.

Emotionally. Meteorologically. Spiritually. And mercifully, without needing a council permit.