Page 37 of The Beach Shack Artists 3
By closing time, everything was running smoothly again. Just like always.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Stella climbed into Tyler’s truck later that afternoon for their planned photography field trip.
“Meg got everything back to normal,” she said, settling into the passenger seat. “Customers can find their tables again.”
“Good. Anna means well, but...” Tyler trailed off, adjusting his rearview mirror. “Meg’s always been good at making things work.”
“Seems that’s her primary role.”
Tyler nodded. “Ready for the circus?” he asked.
“Define circus.”
“Forty-seven pottery booths, at least three artist meltdowns, and Bernie running book on whether Patricia’s seagull grief series will make anyone actually cry.”
“Sounds like my kind of circus.”
The Festival grounds looked like someone had taken every creative person in Orange County and shaken them up in a bag with art supplies and competitive anxiety.
Stella shouldered her camera bag, trying to look like she belonged here instead of like someone who spent most of her time explaining napkin systems to confused customers.
“Fair warning,” Tyler said as they headed toward the main pathway. “Everyone’s going to want to talk. Local artists love photographers.”
“I can handle small talk.”
“Famous last words.”
A woman with paint all over her clothes intercepted them before they’d gone ten feet. Stella revised her estimate of Tyler’s social warning from “helpful heads-up” to “massive understatement.”
“Tyler! Perfect timing. I just finished my installation—could you get some shots before it gets too dark?”
“Sure, Linda. This is my daughter Stella. Stella, Linda makes sculptures from old surfboards.”
“Cool,” Stella said, and actually meant it. The sculptures were beautiful—curved lines that looked like they were still moving even though they weren’t.
“Your father’s been documenting my work for three years,” Linda said, already leading them toward her booth. “I swear he’s captured my artistic evolution better than I have.”
Stella watched Tyler work—the way he moved around Linda’s pieces, finding angles that made them look even better, getting the shots just right. He was good at this. Really good. She’d known he was a photographer, obviously, but seeing him actually do it was different.
While Tyler did his official photos, Stella hung back and raised her own camera. Not the sculptures—those were his thing. But Linda’s face as she watched Tyler work. The way she looked at each shot on his camera with this expression like she was seeing herself for the first time.
“What are you shooting?” he asked.
“Linda watching you photograph her work. Look at her face.”
Tyler glanced over, then at Stella’s camera. “That’s really good. I never would have thought to get that.”
“Different angle.”
They walked through the Festival grounds, Tyler shooting his official stuff while Stella found herself watching the spaces in between—the moments when people thought no one was looking. A guy stepping back from his sculpture, trying to figure out if it looked right. Two pottery people comparing techniques like they were discussing rocket science. A painter touching up a corner while pretending she wasn’t nervous about tomorrow.
This was completely different from photographing the Beach Shack crew. There, she knew everyone’s patterns, could predict what they’d do. Here, everything was new. Unpredictable. Kind of exciting.
“How’s it going, storyteller?” Tyler asked as they stopped near the food vendors.
Stella showed him her camera—a bunch of shots of the same artist from different angles. Setting up, adjusting, checking, adjusting again. Like watching someone go from confident to worried to determined.
