I spent three hours of my Sunday at the Woodhill Art Festival. Wandering from display to display amazed at what becomes when the human soul is allowed to express itself. Each stall seemed to be an uncovering of an inner reality. Each one was uniquely separate, some comically bizarre and some slow and profound like an ancient poem. The other thing that amazed me was the drive to create - clearly the task whose fruit was displayed took painstaking endless effort, alone, struggling with mind and medium. Whether the artist is going to make a living at it, still she must press on in the human struggle to create. To have done so much must mean compulsion. Maybe once the thing begins it has its own demands. So it was I strolled through the miracle of art.
Then it was, for me, a long sit on an abandoned metal chair to watch the art that IS people stroll by me. Dogs galore, some well groomed, some sloppy. Kids galore, some well groomed, some sloppy. Ladies wearing church dresses and men with belts pulled a little snug. Girls drooping in elastic topped sun dresses and boys with muscles glistening, all a bit self conscious. Quirky old ladies with long sleeve shirts and big hats and Onassis sunglasses. A limping women pushing a wheelchair bound friend. Nearly all the men entering the park went first to the food vendors. Women went on to see what deals could be had. All this beauty set in some of the finest artwork I might ever see. It was, for me, a splendid Sunday.