Rare missed day yesterday. I still can’t shake this bronchitis and haven’t been out much. Just a couple of pictures left from my brief Saturday visit to Artica. Here, executive director Nicolette begins to gather the marchers for the annual parade. People are encouraged to bring a biodegradable something to float out onto the Mighty Mississippi with their hopes and dreams.
For the first time in many years, I missed the burning of the Our Lady of Artica effigy last night. I haven’t said much about it but I’ve had nagging bronchitis for a week that really slowed me down. Although I went to the festival for a while Saturday, I lasted only an hour. This clever little monster was munching button flowers along the fence.
It’s Artica weekend again, St. Louis’ annual outdoor, out-there, visual, interactive and music festival. I went down for a while yesterday, still weighed down by some chronic bronchitis and back issues. There was an image at every turn. I gather this was supposed to be an eyeball head. Hard to see, but there were fine blood vessels painted on the sphere. Never saw her face.
Our favorite free-form creative festival, Artica, takes place in early October, but it’s time for people who would like to participate to submit proposals. It takes place in an empty square block near the river. There was an opportunity last weekend for people to check out the space.
The flag of the City of St. Louis on the patio behind The Royale. It references the confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers, with a symbol and colors based on our French and Spanish heritage. Pretty good design.
It’s a travel day. 🇺🇸 → 🇮🇪
Artican is the demonym that people call themselves who are fans of and participants of the Artica scene. The logo is a stylized version of the burning wooden effigy of Our Lady of Artica that ends the festival. The community was hanging out at Saturday night’s event.
Robots of the world, unite! You have nothing to lose but your oil cans!
My favorite local off-the-wall arts festival is Artica, featured here many times over the years. The main event is in October but last night there was a kick-off party for the year’s activities at a bar and restaurant called The Royale. It was a mild night and the crowd was out on the patio, which was full of quirky art. This metallic, hostile-looking fellow wielded a hammer and sickle. Interpret as you will.
Oh, and Mrs. C and I are so old that today is our 51st anniversary. We get along pretty well.
I mentioned in yesterday’s post that I attended a fundraiser for Artica at the William A. Kerr Foundation. There were to be performances but no schedule was published. It was wrapping up when I arrived. There was the sound of a trumpet coming from the basement. I went down and found one last musician.
The corner of Lewis and O’Fallon Streets in the post-industrial wastelands north of downtown. Normally somewhere angels fear to tread, especially at night. However, off-frame to the right is the William A. Kerr Foundation, in its unusual building that hosts all sorts of arts events. On this particular night there was a party, fund raiser and silent auction for Artica.
Another “hey, mister, take our picture!” moment at Artica. It attracts all ages, with a range here from young to (I’m guessing) late middle. There are even some oldsters wandering around, like me and Hap, one of the founders.
Artica traditionally ends with the burning of the big wooden effigy, traditionally Our Lady of Artica but modified for this year’s new location. The organization takes fire safety very seriously - it has to. Permits are required from the city fire department and one of their big pumper trucks is always on standby. There has to be insurance. There is a group of well-trained volunteers in full protective gear to manage it all.
What? I didn’t expect Papageno and Papagena to be attending Artica. May they be blessed with lots of little chicks - if that’s what they want. duck://player/87UE2GC5db0
Suprise! Looks like the DJ at Artica got his finger stuck in the wrong circuit. I don’t understand how these set-ups work, but then I do better with violins and clarinets and that sort of thing.
Lots of children at Artica. The unseasonably warm weather (is that even worth mentioning any more?) encouraged them to tear all over the place. One father and daughter brought a large foam (I think) glider. The kid had a mighty hurl. The wings often fell off on landing but she would pop them back in and promptly relaunch.
Another loose association in an old brain: https://youtu.be/6c1BThu95d8?si=BryfJhcCdCxRjs96 . The lyrics are light weight but the official 1967 video is top-of-the line psychedelic pop. Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear. Looks like the tradition carries forward.
An installation at Artica. Is the word trash here a noun or an adjective? Create art made of trash, or elevate trash into art? There is a long, complicated history about this question over the last century or more. Think of Marcel Duchamp and Louise Nevelson, but the list could go on and on.
Okay, I’m old by most standards. Everybody knows about old people’s puzzlement with young people. ('Twas ever thus.) Still, I look at these four and think about questions of class, culture, privilege and society. I was roughly their age in the geologic era known as the 1970s. I spent the first part of it as a cheaply dressed, if not ragged, graduate student. My three sibs did about the same. We were not wealthy but our parents insisted on education and we did what was expected, ending up with four bachelor’s degrees, a J.D., a Ph.D. and an M.B.A.
For the rest of that decade, thanks in no small part to the woman who kept us financially afloat early on, I wore cheap suits, then better suits, and had a couple of kids. We bought a station wagon. I forgot I had read Jack Kerouac but then read Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance. I would have loved to have sat down and talked to these young people about their lives, but I was out cruising for images.
A striking woman in attendance at Artica. Mrs. C and I tried to figure out what she was up to. She was there by herself, or at least we never saw her interact with anyone. She hung around near where we had pitched our lawn chairs for the burn, taking pictures and selfies, and obviously knew how to pose. The lens can capture moments but not always tell the story.
