But I quickly realised that a stall selling just one item –
my brightly-coloured children’s book – was not going to
attract the throngs of shoppers I needed to make a
buck. The stallholders competed for the money that
burned a hole in the women’s purses. I had to expand
my range.
I walked around the enormous room on a research
mission looking at the other stallholders’ offerings, and
realised that I needed a business name. I decided that
I’d expand the range with some hand-painted birthday
cards and party invitations, and then I included some
other little hand-painted stationery items to make the
range more robust. The items were selling well – but I
really, definitely, needed a brand name.
I called my business Hot Art. I lived in a hot climate and
painted with hot colours, so it seemed a natural choice.
Hot Art. I liked it.
Now that I had a name, I needed a logo. On the back
cover of My Arabian Childhood, I’d painted a picture of a
dallah (an Arabic coffee pot) and a cushion in yellows,
oranges and reds. I had the words Hot Art added to the
image and my logo was born.
Hot Art was in business.
Then came the cushions. I imported a set of bright
fabric paints from Australia and had some local tailors
knock up dozens of plain cotton cushion-covers for me.
Once they were painted and stuffed, they looked great.
So they joined the range. In the shops and souqs of
Riyadh there was nothing like them – they were
modern, bold and daring. And they proved very popular.
Then I got the tailors to make me a bunch of about 50
white aprons. I hand- painted each one with the same
ethereal image of a coquettish woman with flowing
orange hair floating through the sky. Along her
outstretched arm I painted the word ‘precious’, which
somehow struck a chord with the expat shoppers. Most
wore the description of ‘precious’ as a badge of honour,
so they clamoured to buy the aprons I sold as ‘Precious
Pinnies.’
The precious pinnies soon became my best-selling item:
women loved the statement they made and the
quirkiness they delivered. I even started personalising
them by writing the purchaser’s name across the image
in fabric paint, and that made them even more
irresistible.
Selling my wares and experiencing a reasonable level of
financial success started to become a little addictive. I
was struggling to keep the supply matching demand,
but as I had so much time available, my cottage industry
started to develop into a full enterprise. I was working
full-time. If I wasn’t manufacturing, I was selling.
A friend, Rhonda, a born again entrepreneur, taught me
a few tricks about micro-retailing. She had her own
stand selling seasonal costumes and ballet dresses.
While she was an excellent seamstress and could knock
up a Hallowe’en costume or fancy-dress outfit in a flash,
she had a business plan that increased her range and
sales immeasurably. She’d have the local tailors – who
charged a pittance – sew outfits to her specifications,
then she’d sell them at a 100% mark-up.
Because women were banned from driving in Saudi,
Rhonda and I shared taxis to the bazaars. It was
ridiculous: we’d stuff all our merchandise in the boot
and cabin, and somehow corkscrew ourselves into any
tiny remaining space. His cab jam-packed with pink
tutus, red cushions, precious pinnies and scary
Hallowe’en outfits, the poor driver had no way of seeing
out of any of the windows. So, like most of the drivers in
Riyadh, he drove on instinct and a prayer to Allah.
We’d laugh all the way to the bazaars and, on the return
journey, we’d laugh all the way to the bank in an empty
taxi.
playroom as a storage area.
Keeping the range of Hot Art products fresh and new
wasn’t really a challenge. All I had to do was give the
women what they wanted. Everyone here was a bit
starved of fun, and certainly starved of anything
remotely risqué. The most daring thing available for
purchase in the shops was a bottle of dishwashing
liquid whose label depic FVBv