At the Festival

I push through the Personnel Only gate at 5:30 and walk over to Gary’s photography exhibit. Grabbing the dust rag, I spruce up the display. I’m straightening the big sign that says Joshua Tree National Park, when a man comes up behind me.

“Is this the Alabama Hills?” he asks.

“No,” I say, pointing to the sign. “Joshua Tree National Park.”

“Oh,” he says. “Sure looks like the Alabama Hills.” He shrugs and turns away.

So begins another night at the Laguna Beach Festival of Arts.

It’s Thursday - soft jazz, wine and chocolate night. Out on the grass people eat picnic dinners at tables with checkered tablecloths. A cool breeze rustles the tablecloths as the late afternoon sun glows on surrounding walls of art. While picnickers talk softly, a trio plays “The Girl from Ipanema”.

Last night the band played the Star Spangled Banner while we all stood at attention, hands to hearts.

I get a sausage flatbread pizza at Gina’s and sit on the concrete planter wall behind Gary’s booth to eat it. Bill the security guard plops down next to me and starts talking. Tonight I hear about how he used to work at Home Depot where they treated the lumber with a poisonous powder and cut it with a power saw and people inhaled the dust and got sick. On any given night he might tell you about his daughter in law school, his wife’s job search, living in Michigan or another job he used to have. He’s had a lot of jobs.

“Gotta see if those folks want to buy a print,” I tell Bill, even though the people are already walking past Gary’s exhibit. I jump up and leave Bill on the wall.

Across the way from Gary’s desert pictures are Elizabeth’s pastels and Margo’s photos. Cynthia’s prints are behind me. Carol’s pottery is around the corner and Mitch’s Colorado photographs are just past Gary’s on the same wall. I sit at one end; Mitch’s chair is way at the other end. So far I’m the only one here tonight.

People come in tour buses. Men in polo shirts with binoculars around their necks carry blankets and jackets to keep warm during the pageant later. Bald men with white beards and potbellies sport Hawaiian shirts, shorts, socks and sandals. Their wives wear white cotton pants, colorful blouses and New Balance walking shoes. Some have canes. Some are in wheel chairs and seem concerned about how they’re going to maneuver through the narrow passage between my chair and Cynthia’s table.

Margo arrives and says she feels like a sale tonight. We all wish for sales, but that’s not everything. It’s also about connecting with people. Elizabeth likes when someone feels her soul in her art. She has trouble parting with her creations, pieces of her soul.

A teenage boy with a serious camera around his neck studies Gary’s photos for a long time. Other people walk by with only a quick glance toward the desert photos. One of them is a lady in aqua head to toe – aqua sandals, slacks, shirt, purse, jewelry. We have no aqua pictures, so she probably isn’t interested in stopping at our booth.

It’s funny the way people look at art. They stand up close to Gary’s photos, examining them carefully. I’m not sure what they are looking for. Some people turn their backs on Gary’s pictures and look at Elizabeth’s. Others turn their backs on Elizabeth’s and look at Gary’s. If people are drawn to Mitch’s colorful photos, they’re not interested in Gary’s black and whites. And vice versa.

Margo takes pictures of people in mid air, falling onto a trampoline. The backgrounds are dark and the falling subjects are lit from above with a single light. To view her art, people tend to lean sideways, usually to the right. Margo sets up a camera in her booth and takes a video of all the people leaning sideways to look at her mid-air people. She has a wry smile as she watches the people looking at her work.

We decide we could give each other’s spiel.

“They’re falling onto a trampoline,” I’d say.

“Joshua Tree National Park,” she’d say.

“Taken in a studio, lighted from above,” I’d say.

“High dynamic range digital photography,” she’d say.

Lots of the women carry big black purses slung over their shoulders, and when it’s crowded and their backs are to the artwork, I suck in my breath and hope the purses don’t scratch the glass. The women don’t notice where their purses are. Carol’s husband, Wes, holds his breath, too, because one swing of a big black purse could send Carol’s teacups crashing to the concrete.

A thirtysomething man is talking intently to Margo. I think they must be good friends, but when he leaves she says she has no idea who he is. She’s glad he’s gone.

A woman in a sparkly leopard print top and matching ballet slippers wants to know how she can buy one of Elizabeth’s pictures. I direct her to the Sales Booth. Elizabeth will be happy to have the sale, but there goes another bit of her soul.

Mitch arrives, sits in his chair and assumes a stern lifeguard face.

“Where were these pictures taken?” asks a man whose shirt says United We Stand and has an American flag on the sleeve. He should have been here last night for the Star Spangled Banner.

“Joshua Tree National Park,” I say.

“Did you put those round rocks there?” he asks.

“No, that’s just they way they are.”

“How big are they?”

“Huge.” I stand up and circle my arms above my head, though I have no idea how big the rocks really are.

Margo’s got some interested people now. She’s telling them about the trampoline and the studio and the single light above. Maybe this is her sale.

A trio of women pulls out the print of “Desert Surreal” featuring a lone tree caught between two boulders. They prop the print up against the wall and stare at it. This looks promising, so I mosey over there.

“It’s a great photo,” I say.

“Yes,” says the middle lady in a dreamy voice. She caresses the print, sighs and puts it back. They are gone before I realize I’ve forgotten to give them one of Gary’s cards. I’ve fallen down on the job. No sale for me tonight.

A young couple wants to play pool with the boulders in “The Billiard Table”. We all laugh and wonder how big the pool cue would have to be.

A lady all in gauzy white says she just went camping in Joshua Tree. “Amazing place. Amazing photos,” she says and smiles as she walks away.

A peal of laughter erupts behind me and I turn to see a whole tour group sitting on the concrete planter wall. They’re having a good time at the Festival.

Margo’s people don’t buy and the guy who was hitting on her is back.

“Don’t you want my phone number?” he says.

“No,” she replies.

He keeps on talking, leaning toward her, hanging on the side of her chair. When people walk up to her booth, she slips out of the chair and turns her back on him.

A middle-aged couple turns the corner behind my chair and stops to look at Gary’s photos.

“Rocks,” the man says.

“Yes,” his wife says.

“Rocks and sky,” he says.

“Yes,” she says and they move on to Margo’s booth where they both lean to the right.

At the other end Mitch is smiling now, because a woman with a big belly, a pearly necklace and a USC tote bag likes his photos. He retrieves the skinny little sales box he has tucked under the shelf and writes up the sale. The lady has two chins and a really nice smile. Her mother has white hair, a white pantsuit and a purse in primary colors with rhinestones. She’s smiling, too.

It’s almost 8:30, almost time to go. Before I leave, I put out more business cards, straighten the pictures and tidy up the prints in the bin. A couple, chewing gum in unison, approaches the wall and together they stick their noses within inches of the bottom two photos.

“It’s the Alabama Hills, right?” he says

One more time I say, “Joshua Tree National Park.”

“Ah,” they both say. “Beautiful work.”

On that note I call it a night.