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Photograph by Thomas Crone
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On Saturday afternoon, well past the 1 p.m. start time, the Boat of Dreams parade left the site of Artica, slowly meandering down to the Mississippi River. Several carried a large “river,” made of bound fabrics, while smaller strings, or rivulets, criss-crossed alongside. There, attendees found themselves standing alongside a trio of fishermen, who seem more confused than angry that their tiny corner of the world had been invaded by people wearing costumes, tapping on tambourines, and setting small boats, banners, and assorted totems into the water.
A quarter-hour earlier, as the procession was still attempting to figure out when/how to start, Artica co-founder Nita Turnage yelled out to the small crowd that it was their call on when/how to begin walking; it’s wasn’t up to anyone else. So, people started walking. Now, here at the river, she mentioned that she hadn’t planned on talking, but was going to, since Artica’s poet laureate josh (wolf) wasn’t there. In fact, josh (wolf) was around, but no one told him that the parade was actually kicking off, even as it started a half hour late; he’d spent a large part of the previous night perfecting his words for the event. But when it was time to deliver them, he was back at the Artica site, setting up a brightly-colored, four-sided meditation tent.
Over at Artica, things happen as they happen. Always has been, always will be.
On the banks of the river, Turnage spoke briefly and emotionally, noting that she and her artistic/life partner, Hap Phillips, were moving on from St. Louis, heading to their family-owned arts compound in small-town Mississippi within the week. They’d be back, she assured the crowd, for next year’s Artica, before passing the commentary to Artica board member D. Lohr Barkley, who gave an even shorter address, thanking volunteers and attendees for being onsite and active.
This year’s Artica was definitely a transitional one, in pretty much every sense. From a leadership level to a programmatic one, this weekend felt as if some of the energy the event had drawn in previous years had dissipated into the strange ether of the North Riverfront. Last year could perhaps be blamed for some of that vibe, as the site on which Artica’s held—a post-industrial series of fields, just a few-dozen yards west of the Mississippi River flood walls but no longer in the looming Cotton Belt—was slated for demolition, as part of the footprint for a new NFL stadium; a distinctly-colored pile of blue-and-yellow rocks remains of that time of worry.
Talk about hopes and dreams floating into the ether.
On Sunday night, the event’s central, defining event, the burn of Our Lady of Artica, was held at dusk; or, close to dusk, as organizers awaited a St. Louis Fire Department pumper truck. As the sun and temperatures dipped, the Gateway Burners surrounded this year’s rounded Lady, readying it for fire. The drone-rock band Johnny Vancouver again provided a perfect soundtrack and the burn went off without technical hitch. As the embers died down, attendees circled the fire whooping and hollering, as the watchful eyes of the STLFD watched from a nearby distance.
Just prior to the event josh (wolf) was able to give a different version of the address he’d planned for the day prior. On Saturday afternoon, his message was to create on-site, to be active participant in the affair, not just a viewer. As the fire signaled the event’s conclusion, though, he suggested that those in attendance take the message forward, creating as he humorously noted, art events “in the produce section of the grocery store” or your own alley. Artica, then, could carry forward in this spirit; if the event was smaller this year, there’s still be impact, delivered in human-sized doses for another year.
Within minutes of delivering his words, the eyes of the world were across town, as America’s latest Presidential Debate took place at Washington University. While a few miles to the east, in the shadows of abandoned, graffiti-strewn warehouses, a few dozen St. Louisans created their own reality, too. Fire crackled, music played, a festival came to its conclusion and anyone enjoying the scene would’ve been forgiven for wondering what would come next; josh (wolf) might add that it’s each of them that wonder, who’re responsible for carrying on the tradition.
