On An Art Festival

During the weekend past, The Ravishing Mrs. TB wished to go to an art festival located at the heart of New Home 2.0 (Big City edition).  Access there is easy enough - a light rail trip of about 40 minutes - and as we did not have any other plans for the day, it seemed like a good idea.

The walk from the train station to the park where the festival was located was typical of the sorts of things one sees in large cities these days, compounded a bit by the fact that it was a three day weekend.  The streets were largely empty, except for the local population of those that do not have a home.  It is easy enough to avoid a situation and the panhandling that I have seen in other locations such as New Home was not nearly as prevalent.  The sidewalk bears the odor of old urine, something that perhaps only the rain will scrub away (we will see when Winter comes, although has its own health issues I imagine).  The buildings of what was probably a thriving local ethnic downtown are faded and for the most part empty, driven out (likely) by a combination of increase of rent and decrease of business caused both by a move to the suburbs and an unwillingness to make a specific trip and step through or around people to get to one's favorite restaurant. 

These days, one can usually find an excellent restaurant much closer to home.

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The art festival itself is located in a central sort of park for one of the city's historic districts. Signs proclaiming "City District Art Festival" begin to dot the poles as we come near.  One cannot miss the festival itself:  a long rectangle of portable chain link fencing marks out the section of the park dedicated to the arts, useful sign holders in bright yellow jackets stopping the traffic to allow people to cross from one side of the park to the next.  The private security guards are discretely packed away in the corners.

Inside, a series of small tents hold the arts and artists from at least half a dozen countries that I can count.  The artworks themselves are for the most part marvelous creations, the sorts of things that people with real skill can create.  Every medium is represented:  jewelry, glass, metal work, printing, paper, photography, sculpture, wood work, fiber - even local handicraft organizations have demonstration booths.

The crowds themselves are the sorts of people that one usually associates with this sort of art show, the sort of people that - on the whole - likely are not the type of folks that agree with me on most things.  Yes, I know, it is perhaps false to judge things purely based on appearances and half heard conversations - but one gets a sense for things after time through dress and attitude and conversation. No-one is rude of course, or impolite - but there is a vague feeling as we walk up and down the aisles that I am, once again, out of place.

The artwork, while exquisite, is expensive:  small prints of delightfully painted birds on old tea bag material runs $75 while a blown glass trio of flowers is $3200 and a wire frame sculpture is $4500.  These are artists are not fools:  they are here because they believe they can make more money than it cost them to generate the work.

Obviously, I am far from my price range.

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As we leave the festival, within 50 feet we re-enter the zone we originally started in:  the buildings are dour and closed off or in the process of reconstruction (likely for apartments).  The park continues and we walk up.  I marvel at the apparent itinerant inhabitants:  a man with black sweatpants and no shirt on who thumps the garbage can and walks away, the small groups of two or three sitting and discussing things, the man sleeping underneath the sculpture that looks pretty neat but is not something we can see now. In the center of one block we see a small playground where a father is carefully watching his children as they frolic over playground equipment.

As we re-enter the city portion, the same largely empty and grey streets greet us.  Traffic is light, but so are folks like us who are clearly not from around here.  The ground level floors sometimes hold businesses or sometimes have "for lease" signs or sometimes are just empty.

Reaching our stop, there is a series of handicraft stores that are open on this almost empty street.  The items themselves are lovely as I look in the windows.  Looking up, I see a security guard in what I assume is a tactical vest walking the beat around the building.  She nods at me, I nod at her.  We step into one of the stores and look until the ring of the train indicates our tourism is at an end for the day.

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Riding back, I marvel at the the sights I have just seen.

The contrast could not be made more clear by the foil of the art festival in the midst of the general run-down nature of what was once a proud neighborhood.  Fenced off to clearly control access and protect valuables and keep the peace. inside were artworks valued (all together) at hundreds of thousands of dollars.  It is hard to put an estimate on the net worth of the individuals present there - of course some were probably tourists like ourselves - but it is also fair to say that there were people of significant financial worth at that event.  

At the same time, walking up the street, I saw three people sharing a sandwich, eating it as quickly as they could.

The festival ended that day; the tents came down and the artists and their works traveled back with them from whence they came.  As the tide returning, the world that was kept at bay for a little while has undoubtedly rushed back in.  Likely you will be unable to go today and tell there was anything there at all.

The irony?  In many cases the people who came to stroll around and see art (and be seen) will likely be the same group of people verbalize how ugly this part of the city has become, how undesirable - perhaps even unsafe.  They will on one hand support and enable those that create policies that make such things possible and then decry the conditions that these policies have created.  It is a vicious circle that in a way begins and ends with them - but they try to look through the mirror to what is beyond, never seeing the reflection.

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The train comes to a halt at our station.  Above and to our left, the rabbits wait in their room for dinner.