Old Town Art Fair Bag Policy

The Great Old Town Art Fair Bag Scramble of 2025

So you’re ready for the Old Town Art Fair. You’ve got your sun hat, your overpriced iced coffee, and a burning desire to buy a $400 painting of a sad clown. But wait—what’s that shadow lurking over the entrance? It’s the Bag Policy, my friend, and it is coming for your oversized tote.

Let’s be honest: you were probably planning to bring a bag the size of a small suitcase. You know, just in case you buy a life-sized bronze giraffe. Spoiler alert: you won’t. But the bag police don’t care about your dreams—they care about dimensions.

What exactly can you bring? A thimble? A hamster?

The official rule is this: all bags must be smaller than 12” x 12” x 12”. That’s roughly the size of a very disappointed cat. If your bag is larger, you’ll be turned away faster than a mime at a rock concert.

Backpacks, coolers, and suitcases are strictly forbidden. That means no bringing your own portable snack station. You’ll have to survive on $12 lemonade like the rest of us peasants. Surprising fact: The average art fair attendee spends more on snacks than on art. You’re not special.

But wait—there’s a loophole! (Sort of.)

If you’re carrying a diaper bag for a tiny human, you get a pass. Yes, babies have their own VIP section. However, you must be prepared to prove the baby is real. No renting a toddler from Craigslist just to smuggle in a larger handbag.

Also, medical bags are allowed. But please don’t pretend your “medication” is a six-pack of artisanal pickles. The volunteers have seen it all. They are not impressed by your pickle-based heist.

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The security checkpoint: Where dreams go to die

Every bag gets searched. Yes, even that tiny clutch you swear is just “emotional support leather.” Volunteers will dig through your life like a raccoon looking for a rotten apple. They’re looking for weapons, glass bottles, and—most importantly—your dignity.

Fun surprise: You are not allowed to bring outside alcohol. I know, I know—you wanted to sip boxed wine while staring at a watercolor of a lighthouse. But the fair has its own beer tent, and it’s overpriced. That’s the deal you must accept.

What about cameras? Can I bring my drone?

Please don’t bring a drone. Unless you want to be tackled by a volunteer named Karen who is very committed to “atmosphere control.” Cameras are fine, but professional video equipment requires permission. If you show up with a full film crew, expect to be asked very polite questions about your life choices.

And no weapons. I shouldn’t have to say it, but here we are. Leave your sword collection at home. The only sharp thing you need is your credit card for that $500 abstract splatter piece.

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The great bag loophole: clear bags are your friend

Now, here’s a pro tip that will change your life: bring a clear plastic bag. It’s like a window into your soul—and also into your wallet. Festival security loves clear bags because they can see your snacks without you needing to unzip anything. It’s the closest you’ll get to feeling like a celebrity with a transparent purse.

If you don’t have a clear bag, just use a Ziploc. A giant one. You’ll look ridiculous, but you’ll be inside the fair, sipping that $12 lemonade while others weep at the gate. It’s a small price for entry.

What happens if you ignore the rules entirely?

You will be denied entry. Not just “asked to leave”—denied with the same energy a bouncer has when he says “sorry, we’re at capacity” to a group of twenty frat boys. You’ll have to walk of shame back to your car, bag in hand, defeated by a tote of your own hubris.

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Surprising fact: In 2023, seventeen people were turned away for trying to bring in a reusable grocery bag filled with “art supplies.” It was just chips. They’re still banned from the fair.

Final advice: Pack light, laugh often, and leave the conspiracy theories at home

Here’s the truth: the bag policy exists so you don’t turn the art fair into a cluttered mess. No one wants to trip over your Costco-sized backpack while trying to appreciate a painting of a naked cherub. The volunteers are nice people—they just have to enforce rules with the sternness of a librarian who’s tired of your noise.

So do yourself a favor. Leave the giant bag. Bring a small crossbody or a clutch. And for the love of all that is holy, leave your folded-up shopping trolley at home. You are not going to a farmers market in 1995. You are going to look at some very expensive paint strokes, and you are going to enjoy it, damn it.

Now go forth. Buy that sad clown painting. And remember: the bag policy is not the enemy—it’s just a weird friend who asks too many questions before letting you have fun.