Page 38 of The Beach Shack Artists 3
“See? Story,” he said, scrolling through them. “Beginning, middle, end.”
“Or just a guy who can’t decide if his painting is straight.”
“Same thing.”
Tyler introduced her to more artists as they kept walking. The driftwood sculptor, who turned out to be surprisingly funny. A photographer who specialized in close-ups of beach glass and had strong opinions about lens quality. Two painters who’d been married forty years and still argued about colors like it was a blood sport.
“Your daughter’s got a good eye,” the beach glass photographer said, looking at Stella’s shots. “Natural composition sense.”
“Thanks,” Stella said, trying not to sound too pleased.
“You should think about entering something next year. Emerging artist category always needs fresh perspective.”
“Maybe,” Stella said, which was more than she’d ever committed to before.
After he left, Tyler glanced at her. “That didn’t sound like a hard no.”
“It wasn’t a hard yes either.”
“Progress.”
They found Bernie near the main stage, tablet out, looking like he was running the whole Festival instead of just watching.
“Afternoon, Walsh family photographers,” he said without looking up.
“How did you know it was us?” Stella asked.
“Peripheral vision. Also, Tyler’s the only person who photographs art like he’s documenting wildlife.” Bernie glanced up. “How’s the artistic chaos treating you, Stella?”
“Entertaining. What are the current odds on Patricia’s seagull crisis?”
“Even money someone tears up. Three-to-one it’s Patricia herself.” Bernie showed them his screen. “I’ve got separate betting lines for artistic breakthroughs, equipment failures, and weather-related meltdowns.”
“You’ve thought of everything,” Tyler said.
“I try to be thorough.” Bernie returned to his tablet. “Stella, I heard you’ve been taking some interesting shots around the Shack. Documentary work.”
“Just for fun, yeah?” Stella said quickly.
“Sure. Want to see the real chaos?” Tyler asked as they got to the mixed media section.
“Is there fake chaos?”
“You’re about to find out.”
They stopped at a booth where a woman with silver-streaked hair was arranging what looked like organized creativity meetspaint explosion. Her pieces were displayed perfectly, but her workspace looked like a paint store had gotten into a fight with a craft store.
“Excuse me,” Tyler said, “would you mind if we took some photos? I’m documenting the Festival for the organizers.”
“Of course!” The woman looked up from arranging shells around her main piece. “I’m Carmen. Perfect timing, actually. I need objective opinions.”
“About what?” Stella asked.
“Color balance. Does this section feel too heavy?” Carmen gestured at her mixed media piece—painting, found objects, and textural stuff that somehow worked together despite looking impossible.
Stella studied it. The piece was beautiful, complicated in a way that made you want to keep looking. “The shells... they make the whole thing feel alive. Like it’s still part of the ocean.”
“See? I told you it worked.” Carmen beamed. “Your daughter has an excellent eye.”
