sawdust or bust

My memory is not what it used to be.

"I remember this artist from last year," I said to Robbie, gesturing at a small canvas depicting an abstracted lifeguard station covered in mellow tones of ochre and ivory. She looked at me.

"We weren't here last year," she said, giving me a sidelong glance. "We never made it."

"No, I'm quite sure," I said, summoning the remains of an enfeebled mind. "Don't you remember ~ there was a Japanese wedding party in a red Cadillac convertible? That weird singer guy with those long, bizarre lyrics?...We were talking to that lawyer. We had margaritas on the patio at Las Brisas...?"

"Nope. That was 2 years ago."

"Was not."

"Was too. You're confused. Have a beer."

And so I did.

As anyone who knows me knows too well, Laguna Beach is one of my favorite places in Cali to dally, and the annual Sawdust Festival is just another excuse to head down the coast to hang with the locals and the tourists; with established artists and hopeless wannabees alike. Wannabees like meez. It's fun and funky, in a very arts and crafts kind of way ~ tiny booths transformed into indoor/outdoor gardens, boatyards, farmyards and twinkling elven cottages right out of children's picture books. In one glittering treehouse aerie devoted entirely to the depiction of faeries and all their other-worldly needs, a disembodied voice floating down from somewhere high above sang out cheerily, "Let me know if you need any help!" Followed immediately by the sound of a functioning breast pump.

So Sawdust.








Technically, one is supposed to ask if one can take pictures of the artwork on display, and this is only correct. But I am shy by nature and loathe to do so, and therefore have no good pictures to offer. I did, however, unapologetically snag the two above by artist Anne-Liv Scott, just because I really liked them. And because she was conveniently nowhere to be seen. The 3-dimensional elements on the canvas are not captured here, but they were quite arresting. I would have happily bought the one on top. Or the bottom. I'm easy that way.


And it's a good thing I'm broke, or my house would be full of these gorgeously wrought things, made entirely of found silver utensils, which I adored when I first saw them last...I mean, a couple of years ago, and would still be collecting today if I could. I love this crab. It's so...me.

As it was, all I could do was gaze.


Across the street at the more elite Festival of the Arts, which is a juried show and the more exclusive for it, things were so much more refined that I was compelled to switch from beer to wine, and it was Robbie's turn to wish that she too had more money. The pieces over on this side of the highway were diverse and beautifully executed, and here photographs were expressly verboten. I was happy to see one of my old favorites though, Sandra Jones Campbell, featured above the tents, and snapped a safely legitimate pic.


I don't think she'd mind.

In the end, there was so much to assimilate that we went into sensory overload, and after several hours left without seeing every artist in the show; a veritable first for both of us. But the ocean, peartinis and a bartender named Chad awaited somewhere down the road, singing their siren song. It's too bad about the pictures. But at least I have my collection of artists' business cards, which are an inspiration in themselves. And of course, I'll always have my memories. Such as they are.