How’d It Go, Babe?

The art festival.  As if anyone other than a few dear friends (Shari, Gaylyn, Aunt Cynthia, and Frank–and perhaps you too, Sara Urry? and at least one of my Stephanies?) will see this.  But.  It is historical (tickles me sometimes how historical is just a couple of letters away from hysterical).  Personal history, with distant (however unlikely) public potential.  And so I will write about how it went, Babe.

This Is How It Went.  The wind shrieked.  Ok, it didn’t shriek; it gusted, and it only gusted while we were setting up and for a couple of hours afterward.  Later in the day it was so still and suffocatingly hot I longed for the wind’s return, in any form.  The early gusts were enough to flap my paintings around on the sturdy wire-and-2X walls that they were hung on (once, one blew off).  Slightly nervewracking.  And enough to blow away another vendor’s tent entirely, and break its legs (the tent’s, thankfully not the vendor’s).  Therefore (because of gusts), I eschewed the neat, handwritten tags I’d prepared the night before for each painting.  Therefore: no prices, no titles.  The titles I missed, again and again.  The prices I didn’t.  So uncomfortable with posting prices.  If I am fond enough of a painting to show it, my attachment tends to run so deep that I’m also reluctant to sell it.  Hardly the frame of mind for mercenary decisions.  But titles!  Mmm, I love naming things.  A title can change a painting, can add a layer as breathtaking as glaze.

Organizers, cheerful ladies in yellow shirts, seemed pleased with the festival’s turnout, which wasn’t too bad (all right, it was definitely underwhelming).   They didn’t seem upset that they had planned for more food than they would sell.  The day two thirds over, they offered desserts at half price.  They had worked hard and efficiently, had involved many people, giving kids and artists and local musicians an opportunity to shine, and I think that in general everything went smoothly enough for them, barring the tent swept out to sea.

But.  During the still, quiet heat of the day, when even the breeze wasn’t moving, I felt keen disappointment at both the scant turnout, and the scant turnout’s lack of interest in my little tent.  Reminded once more (and it isn’t a happy thought for me) both of my community’s mild complaisance about art (but then, I think my community isn’t that unusual in its tepid art appreciation), and of my fledgling-artist status.  At which juncture I’d ask myself so why are you doing this?  What is the point?  Who is looking?  Who is moved?  And who on earth would buy?  Why would they buy, when there are galleries dotting  25th street with more familiar, more established (often better) art?  Art which is gradually gathering dust.  Not to mention Salt Lake’s shows and galleries, and the multitude of print-selling bookstores everywhere.  If none of that is selling, why would yours?

The wind seemed to stir when Aunt Marcielle and Cousins Sara and Merribeth dropped by.  They are all appreciative of my creativity, and they rarely understate their opinions about anything.  Which, while it sometimes can feel a little disconcerting, always makes me feel loved.  These women are their own friendly gust of wind; they are one of my very favorite features of Ogden.  Their cluster and enthusiasm drew a small crowd and eased me back into at least momentary serenity.  Their cluster and enthusiasm marked the beginning of the end of my business cards, though I never did sell a painting or arrange for a commission.  Won no prizes.  But all my business cards were taken.

Frank camped out with me almost all day.  He helped me set up; he helped me take it all down.  Or rather, I helped him.  He is in one of his many elements, setting up and taking down…anything.  From weddings to campouts to church meetings to loads of appliances.  To pancake cook-offs.  I carry things, I hand him things.  I hold brackets and thumb tacks.  He is both in charge, and good at it.  He brought me breakfast: a green smoothie with chia seeds floating in it.  The night before was late for him and the morning early.  I had slept not at all.  We were both relieved to return home at the end of the hot day, and I am happy now to have the paintings adorning my own walls again.  I still haven’t caught up on missed sleep.

I will end this telling with a sweet note.  Stories illustrated with mellow, cud-chewing bovines nestled in sunlit pastures should most certainly end on a sweet note (disillusionment damage control–in our century, it’s imperative).  The Aunt and Cousins moment was definitely a high point.  So was the eager little family that rushed in just minutes before it was time to take down, excited at the prospect of commissioning me to do family portraits (I haven’t heard from them since, but their eagerness was certainly a compliment), and a nice lady here and a nice lady there with similar praise.  I have learned to accept enthusiasm in the moment as a gift, and let it go afterward without expectations.   My favorite bit though, that elusive sweet note, came in the stillness and warmth of the day.  An older gentleman, quiet and unassuming—maybe a farmer? a teacher? toured my booth slowly, taking his time.  I sat reading in my chair, almost forgetting him in his unobtrusiveness, trying to lose myself in Tolstoy’s “War and Peace” (not easy, when each of the many characters has at least four totally disparate names).  Before he left, the gentleman addressed me.  I wish I could remember his words exactly, but the gist of what he said was that stepping into my display had taken him back in time, that he’d just spent the last few minutes steeped in nostalgia.  My paintings were (to him) reminiscent of the 30‘s and 40‘s (and so were my props: the pails of flowers, milk cans, wooden table, and old wooden chair).  He pointed at my painting of my sister, “Mara On Sunday”.  “Ladies don’t wear aprons anymore, but they used to.  Always.” He’d noticed how the dress style and even the colors I used in “And You Taught Me How to Dance” fit the era he was remembering.  The painting of my grandparents “Mitchell Loved Beverly” (very, very young) kissing, the painting of my grandmother “And Beverly Had a Doll”, when she was a child with her doll (a doll both beloved and rare in her family’s poverty); even the portraits I’d done of an Anthropologie model that turned out looking like my mother and aunts in their youth (“Asa Berkeley’s Prodigies, #1, #2, #6”)  all worked together to create a tranquil, yester-year mood he’d luxuriated in.    “Thank you for sharing this with me”.    He wasn’t profuse; his words and manner were simple and genuine.

I loved that he qualified his compliment, that he was specific.  It was meaningful to me (I’m fascinated by the 30’s and 40’s, and like that my art turns out peaceful and serene).  And I was especially grateful to him for this:  He changed my perspective.  He saw my efforts, my collecting my paintings and setting them up in a treeless, almost people-less field on a hot Saturday— without much hope of selling any, as sharing.  Sharing is definitely worth it.  Sharing answers my own question: What’s the point?  Sharing is a very good point.

And that, Babe, is how it went.

The End.

(PS:  I’ll be posting the new paintings I displayed at the art festival on my gallery page very soon…today?  Tomorrow? by this weekend?  Check back now and then, and you’ll see them eventually.