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Photographs by Thomas Crone
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For a decade and change, I’ve passed through various incarnations of the Artica festival, though before this year, I was never a participant, as such. That said, anyone that goes to the fall arts event can be drawn into the activities. There are plenty of participatory installations that entice the viewer to take part in the peculiarity and fun.
This year, for example, an old-school, clicking-clacking typewriter sat in the midst of a giant, exposed room in the Cotton Belt Freight Depot; there, people sat and typed thoughts on blank sheets of paper, which were then tacked onto the walls for day-after reading. In another room, a drum circle took place as night fell and a young tween began to chant along with the drummers; it was a bit beautiful and a bit chilling, her voice a perfect match for the tribal beats. And the most-direct participation came after the night’s burn, when a huge, wooden figure was set afire to the delight of the crowd. As the piece crashed to the bumpy grass field, the burner crew that surrounded the site opened it up to the masses. Quickly, children and adults, alike, began to run in circles around the flame.
The surprises of Artica can be many. This year, a band named Johnny Vancouver took the stage as night was falling. The group, earlier in the day, seemed a bit goofy, or silly, at least in terms of their personal interactions. But once they hit stage, their sound flipped that idea, as the four-piece stretched out a set of serious, gorgeous rock instrumentals, a right-on complement to the scene playing out around them; think Mogwai or Sigur Rós and you’d have a feel of their sound, even as their cover of “Purple Rain” was a set highlight. Earlier in the day, a wedding took place at Artica as well, the ceremony held on the same stage that would present the burn later in the evening. As might be expected, all taking part, and many attending, wore colorful, artistically tinged formalwear.
While a wedding’s not a regular piece of Artica programming, the Boat of Dreams Parade is pretty much a standard. As the percussion group Joia accompanied the marchers, the entire Artica community—including the wedding party—rolled down from the Artica grounds, north of Laclede’s Landing, to the Mississippi River. The crowd nimbly walked down the rock-and-broken-concrete banks that once lead up a hill to the Admiral. Some set actual, floating boats in the river. Others tossed in flowers, or stones, or logs. The meaning behind each gift to the river was in that person’s own head, while the walk held a certain, very real, collective energy.
Back on site, artist Amy VanDonsel and I set up a play on the Magic Door concept that I wrote about for stlmag.com some months back. Wanting to take a picture of any Artican willing to be photographed, we assembled a backdrop with an aquatic theme, per Artica’s hopes to tie the festival into the nearby Mississippi. (“We” there meaning mostly her, not me.) Most Articans were fine to take a few minutes for a picture and the results reflected the weird, wonderful cross-section of people that take part in the improvisational fest each autumn.
In fact, our backdrop was a bit nomadic, moving up and down a small hill, at times resting against the Cotton Belt, at times against a nearby wall. The idea was to best capture the day’s light, but also to find people who might’ve walked right on by the prop at different times. As the Artica fest site is large, vast and without one entry point, people come in from various angles and stay for completely different amount of time.
The biggest event is the annual burn, and this year, a few hundred folks reclined on chairs, blankets and other makeshift seating, growing in anticipation as fire performers readied the crowd. After the burn, dozens hung around, sipping at their BYO beers and spirits, generally reliving the immediately past good times.
My favorite day at Artica, though, has always been Sunday, when organizer Nita Turnage, Hap Phillips and their board members sit on pick-up trucks and greet artists who are breaking down their installations. The mood’s relaxed, save for the dogs engaging in (mostly) good-natured fights. When those settle down, there’s not a lot of sound, just the ambient stuff, like the trains rolling a couple dozen yards away, just behind the Cotton Belt’s old loading stations. This year, even the wind took a holiday, with blue skies the rule.
To liven things up, artist John Pruitt brought a full croquet set and a dozen players moved through a lengthy game, what Pruitt called “Swatica.” It was a leisurely match, as much about sipping at Schlaflys as “swatting balls;” dogs raced through and jousted on the field of play, but no one much minded. Artica on Sundays is the most chill place on Earth. Can’t imagine being anywhere on that fall day next year.
(As noted, and in the interests of disclosure, this writer and Amy VanDonsel received a programming grant from Artica this fall. Photos accompanying this story can be found in larger form here.)
