Collectors lured by mementos reflecting Olympics, green Jell-O
02/19/2002
SALT LAKE CITY – "You're an artist, aren't you? I can tell you're an
artist. That's the kind of pin an artist, a sophisticated collector
would want."
Marlee Baker, one of the many people hawking Olympic pins on the streets
of Salt Lake City, is doing a marvelous job. She's got Pamela Thomas
hooked on a small black pin from the 1992 Barcelona Games.
"Collecting pins is like an art form," Baker tells her, standing behind
a pin featuring the head of Fred Flintstone. "You have to appreciate art
to get into it."
Baker, a former massage therapist who lives in Branson, Mo., is a key
cog in the enormous Olympics pin-trading machinery. Every day, from 9
a.m. to 1 a.m., she and a few of her colleagues have 10,000 pins for
sale. And she does a brisk business.
"It starts out as an impulse buy for people," she said. "Then they get
the fever and they keep buying more."
When she discusses pin trading, the most common word out of Baker's
mouth is fever. As in: "I sell a lot of pins for just $1 or $2, so
people can buy them up and start to get the fever." Or: "In Sydney,
people just didn't have the fever. It was sad, because pin trading is an
Olympic event as much as anything else."
Thomas, the woman Baker sold on pin trading as art form, is the latest
victim of the fever. She bought the Barcelona pin for $5, adding it to
the 20 others in her pocket.
"They're just really cool! It's addictive," she said before warning her
mother: "Don't let me go near another pin stand."
Pins are everywhere at these Games, setting off metal detectors and
launching appreciative oohs and aahs. It's not unusual to see people
walking around town with a hundred or more pins attached to a vest or
jacket. They feature everything from television networks to Olympic
events to nearby burger joints.
Marguerite Harrington, a former Houstonian now living in Salt Lake City,
asked Baker if she had any Texas-themed pins. "I didn't get the fever
until a couple of weeks ago," she said, unprompted. "Now I've got about
50 pins." She lowers her voice and leans in:
"I've got the green Jell-O pin."
As soon as you hear someone mention pins in Salt Lake City, start
silently counting to yourself. By the time you reach 20, chances are
someone will have mentioned the green Jell-O pin, which achieved
legendary status within days of the Games' opening.
The pin – which portrays a simple bowl of lime gelatin, Utah's official
state snack food – might be worth 20 or 30 cents in raw materials. But
in the artificial tulip-bulb economy of the Olympics, it might as well
be solid gold.
"There's a lady down the street who sold a Jell-O pin for $200," Baker
confides, although she notes that is "unconfirmed." A typical street
quote for a green Jell-O range is about $150. They originally sold for
$7.50.
Of course, the market for Olympic pins is always artificially inflated
during the Games. Once it is only the hard-core collectors still
interested in trading, prices drop. In 1996, a particular onion-ring pin
was going for $1,500 in Atlanta. "Now people who have them ask, 'How
much can I get for it?' " Baker said. "Good luck."
As in real estate, the three most important factors in successful pin
trading are location, location, location, and Baker snagged a terrific
spot on a busy street downtown. She and her trading colleagues have
taken over a portion of a parking lot – which, considering the value of
a good parking spot around here, shows the economic might of pin trading.
Despite all the time she spends around pins, she maintains the distance
required of someone in the business. "I've learned I can't get attached.
You might have to trade it away." Between puffs on her cigarette, she
does speak longingly of a silver-and-gold snowflake pin she swapped a
few days ago: "I traded it and it broke my heart. But that's what you
do."
She's been trading since the Los Angeles Games in 1984, which she
considers the fever's "absolute peak." The Nagano Games in 1998 were
also a strong year: "A pin is a small piece of art, which meant they
could fit into their tiny Japanese houses," Baker said.