Page 70 of The Beach Shack Artists 3
“But look at this,” Margo said, finding a different image. This one showed the early morning prep—her at the grill, Tyler organizing supplies. “This is the heart of the Shack. This is what it feels like to belong there.”
Stella felt her cheeks warm. “It’s just light and timing.”
“No,” Luke said, studying the image. “It’s seeing. You’re seeing the story underneath the routine.”
“You captured love,” Joey added, dropping his usual drama. “Like, actual love. The way people care about each other and the place and the work. That’s not just documentation, Stella. That’s art.”
Stella shook her head. “I’m not an artist. I just take pictures of things.”
“And Margo just cooks food, and Anna just puts paint on canvas,” Tyler said. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that I don’t have training or technique or?—“
“You have eyes,” Anna interrupted. “And instincts. And you see things the rest of us miss. Look at these photos, Stella. You’re telling stories about people and place and connection. That’s exactly what art is supposed to do.”
Stella looked around the table, seeing something change in everyone’s faces.
“You should submit them,” Bea said quietly. “These are really good, Stella.”
“I can’t just submit random phone pictures to an art festival,” Stella said.
“Why not?” Tyler asked. “Some of the most powerful documentary photography ever made was shot on whatever camera the photographer had available. It’s not about the equipment, it’s about the eye behind it.”
“Speaking of submitting,” Margo said casually, like she was commenting on the weather, “I should probably mention that I already submitted a painting.”
The table went completely silent.
“You what?” Anna said finally.
“I finished a piece last week,” Margo said, taking a sip of wine. “Submitted it yesterday. Figured while you all were figuring out whether you really wanted the Shack, I had some quiet time to paint.”
“Margo,” Tyler said slowly, “you haven’t submitted anything to the Festival in decades.”
“Seemed like a good time to start again.” Margo’s eyes held mischief. “Besides, someone had to represent the family with dignity.”
Stella watched everyone’s faces cycle through shock, pride, and disbelief.
“What did you paint?” Bea asked.
“The Shack,” Margo said simply. “But not the way customers see it. The way it feels to have spent fifty years creating a space where people belong.”
If Margo—eighty-year-old Margo who hadn’t shown her art in decades—could put herself out there...
“If you can be brave enough to submit,” Anna said slowly, “then what’s our excuse?”
“Exactly,” Tyler said. “I think that’s a great idea.”
“And I could submit my Florence piece,” Anna said, getting excited.
“My Laguna series too,” Bea added.
“What about you, Stella?” Tyler prompted. “You could submit the Bernie triptych we talked about.”
“Bernie triptych?” Meg asked.
“Three photos of Bernie at his most expressive,” Tyler explained. “The health inspection horror, the coffee machine crisis panic, and his victory face when the replacement machines worked.”
Everyone looked at Stella. “I still don’t think random phone pictures count as art,” she said weakly.
