Art Fest 2023

 

Sunday, 4/30

I sat down last night to write about the Santa Fe Springs Art Fest, but this morning when I looked at what I wrote  I just dumped the whole damn post. Writing is fun like that. Sometimes you do OK, and sometimes you look at what you wrote, and cringe a little. It's like hearing your own voice on an old tape recorder.

Clark Estate

This was the second year for the Santa Fe Springs Art Fest since the lockdowns. The show this year was as good, if not better than last year and the crowd was bigger, despite the ten dollar entry fee. 

 

Afternoon before the rush

It's very satisfying to see big crowds turn out for an art show. And it feels good to be there as returning artist, and prize winner. My work is a small part of the reason all these folks came out, and spent their money to be here. I'm part of the program, not just a spectator. It feels like being one of the Real Guys.

"Aerodyne" tied with these pieces for second place in sculpture, and I was more than OK with that. 

This piece took the blue:

Kudos. 

I took a lot more photos, but I'm a Luddite dinosaur with no cell phone. My Canon EOS broke, so I had to use the cheapie. I'm a crummy photographer anyway, and a lot of the pics just didn't come out.

Of course, the Art Fest is more than art. They do films, and of course there is dance, and there is music.

 

 Truth to tell, most folks probably come for the music. I don't blame them. Before the more popular acts took the music stage, they had afternoon performances from a string quintet from the Rio Hondo Symphony, and a high school band. I sat up close to hear the quintet. They finished up by playing an adagio; something contemplative, lyrical, a little sad, and oddly familiar. Bach? maybe Schubert?  Where had I heard it? Then it clicked.

"Unchained Melody."

 It just pierced me, somehow. I actually got all misty.

Mary and I enjoyed the entertainment. The bands were great, and the food truck food was junk food yummy. Mary got wine, and I sly dogged a couple of tweets out by the porta-potties. 

There was live Motown on stage. Now I won't even pretend to be a fan, but hearing "Tears of a Clown," "Reach Out," "Same Old Song," and a bunch of stuff from the Supremes, carried me back to AM radio in the car on Whittier Boulevard. 

 

Can't beat nostalgia for nostalgia. Catching a buzz, and hearing live music is as good now, as it always was. It was a long day, and a late night for both of us. We were tired in a good way. Mary had another long day ahead of her, Saturday.

This Sunday morning is drizzly, gray, and cold. My state of mind is drizzly, gray, and cold as well. Maybe it's my propensity to find the fly in any ointment. Maybe it's like finding a fly in your drink. Friday didn't start well, despite the art show. I'll get to that a bit later.

  As fun as the Art Fest was, I couldn't help but notice a significant number of masked faces. Especially the kids.

One kid in the high school band played his sax through a hole in his black face mask. I saw very young children masked up, and realized that masking is a way of life for them. They don't remember a time when they weren't forced to wear it. It's as natural to them as wearing a shirt. It's the new normal imposed upon them. Mom and Dad always wear the mask.

Talking to visitors, and other artists is part of the game as well. Like any artist, I enjoy talking about my work, and listening to how other artists approach what they do. But in this age and time, you feel the constraints, the guard you keep on words, and the mask under which you keep opinions. It's become instinctive to be a gatekeeper, listen for code-words, and gracefully steer conversations away from news, and politics. I unintentionally slipped toward the zone in a conversation with another artist. I mentioned the sacred triad of Goodness, Truth, and Beauty. I heard Beauty, Truth, and... Justice in reply. Gate closed.

 

 

And so it has become, and so it is.

Early Friday, the morning of the show, Mary received a call from one of her close friends, Maria. Maria's mother Theo is in her nineties, and quite frail. We both assumed the early call was to say that Theo had passed. But Theo was fine. It was fifty six year old Gary, Maria's partner of twenty four years, who dropped dead of suddenly. That makes seven in the last couple of years.  

The most Mysterious Skinamalink didn't show up Friday night. He was at the door Saturday morning, a bloody mess from a cat fight. That was a $500. visit to the vet. 

Mary spent Saturday down in Long Beach with her friend. I brought the stones home from the show, and got Ol' Skinnies back from the vet. The stones were back on the shelf. The cat was all patched up, and safe in the house. I had the afternoon to myself. 

Reheat the stale coffee. Put clean water in the bong, break a fresh bud, and take this melancholy mood out to the gazebo. Catch a quiet buzz, and listen to the wind chimes. Maybe later do some work on the stone.

I didn't even get the bowl filled before the grounds guys showed up next door. They fired up three or four two stroke motors at once, and filled the yard with noise. I can't stand these guys. They'll spend close to two hours on that yard, and they never shut off the leaf blowers. Hearing aids pick up that staccato whine, and drive it like a nail straight into your skull.

So I put up the bong, poured out the stale coffee, and got the bike out. Figured I'd roll down to the bike path to my little break spot on the railroad easement. That'll be better anyway. I can check the lupines, and see if the seed pods are ripe. 

Rolled up to the spot. Leaned the bike against the big concrete block. Before I could even get the pipe out of the tool bag, grounds crews showed up at three different back yards along the easement. Great. Now I can sit here and listen to leaf blowers, and string trimmers. So maybe try the park just past where the bike trail ends. 

Park is full of parents and toddlers. So I turned back home without getting a tweet. The gardeners were still at it next door, the leaf blowers cranked up to ten. So I put on some coffee. By the time the brew was ready the gardeners had left, and I had the place to myself again. Had a fresh cup, and finally got to that bud. Maybe write a little on the Art Fest, Check emails, n' stuff.

 Got a note from my old friend Jeff. Looks like the gal he was dating dumped him. Damn it all anyway.

"...It's even worse than it appears, but,

It's all right.

We will get by.