Page 25 of The Beach Shack Artists 3
“You should totally enter,” Everett said. “Then we can all go see your art!”
“You definitely will,” Anna laughed. “I’m planning to submit a piece about the way morning light moves through the Beach Shack. Very different from the Italian work, but using the same techniques.”
“Speaking of the Festival,” said a mother Anna didn’t recognize, “are you the Anna Walsh whose daughter Bea just got back from Italy?”
“That’s me.”
“My son goes to school with her. He says she’s like, basically Italian now? So sophisticated.”
Anna laughed. “She’s sixteen. She’s exactly as sophisticated as she thinks she is, which changes hourly.”
“Teenagers,” several parents said knowingly.
“Is she entering the Festival too?” Candace asked. “She’s an artist, right?”
“She is, and she’s considering it,” Anna said. “We’ve both been working on pieces since we got back. Italy inspired us both, just in different ways.”
“Must be nice being back,” David said. “Claire missed you. We tried the other art teacher but?—”
“She made us stay inside the lines,” Claire interrupted with disgust. “Inside! The lines!”
“The horror,” David said, but he was smiling at his daughter’s outrage.
“Art doesn’t have lines,” Everett announced. “It has suggestions of boundaries.”
His mother sighed. “This is why we need you back, Anna. Someone else needs to explain to him why he can’t paint the neighbor’s fence without permission.”
The room filled with laughter and chatter, kids showing work they’d done over the summer, parents updating Anna on various art-related disasters. She’d missed this—the controlled chaos, the enthusiasm, the way kids saw possibility everywhere.
“So,” Candace said during a lull, “I saw the work on your Instagram from Florence. It’s incredible. The Festival judges are going to love it.”
Anna felt heat rise in her cheeks. “Those were studies for the larger pieces I’m working on now. Florence taught me to see light differently—more layered, more complex.”
“They were beautiful,” said another parent. “Especially that series of the bridges.”
“That bridge series actually inspired my Festival submission,” Anna said. “I’m applying those same techniques to capture the morning light at the Beach Shack. Very different subject, same approach to color and luminosity.”
“We’ll all come see it!” Claire declared. “Right, Dad?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” David said. “Claire’s been talking about the Festival nonstop. Apparently it’s the social event of the summer.”
“It is,” several parents confirmed in unison.
“My sister entered last year with her photography,” Candace added. “She didn’t win, but she got to display at the grounds all month. It was so cool seeing her work there.”
David checked his watch. “Speaking of cool, we need to go. Math tutor in twenty minutes.”
As parents started gathering their kids, Anna noticed how natural this felt. Like slipping into an old sweater that still fit perfectly. She’d thought Florence would change her, make her into some serious artist. Instead, it had just reminded her that art lived everywhere—in lumpy clay dogs and painted kitchen cabinets and the way kids saw the world.
“Ms. Walsh?” Candace lingered as others left. “I’m really excited to see your Festival piece. It’s so cool that our teacher is showing with all the official artists.”
“You think I’m not an official artist?” Anna teased.
“You know what I mean. In the actual Festival, with the little white cards and everything.”
Anna smiled. “Those little white cards don’t make someone an artist, Candace. You know what does?”
“Making art?”
