There are only a few things in life more powerful than weather. One is a toddler with a permanent marker. Another is a group text among artists at 5:12 a.m. asking whether the show is “still happening” because there is a cloud visible on the horizon (or god forbid on Apple Weather).
Festival weather has its own ecosystem. Scientists claim weather is caused by atmospheric conditions, but this is clearly false. Weather at an art festival is caused by one thing only: the moment an artist finishes setting up an impossibly complicated display involving fragile ceramics, handblown glass, and approximately 472 zip ties.
At that exact moment, the atmosphere says: “You know what would be funny? Wind.”
Wind at an art festival is not normal wind. Regular wind gently moves tree branches. Festival wind is emotionally invested. It arrives with purpose. It waits until the artist is opening the final bin of ceramic mugs before producing a 40 mile per hour gust aimed directly at the only unsecured ProPanel.
Artists respond to wind in fascinating ways. Jewelry artists immediately become structural engineers. Painters begin frantically moving their entire booth around. Ceramic artists stare into the middle distance with the hollow expression of people who know exactly what replacement inventory costs.
Meanwhile, patrons react to weather as though they are wildlife encountering climate for the first time.
A single raindrop hits the pavement and half the crowd vanishes instantly, apparently returning to their natural habitat – inside. The remaining patrons become divided into two categories:
- People desperately buying art before the storm worsens.
- People who stand inside an artist’s booth for forty-five minutes saying: “Wow, you must really hate this weather.”
No artist has ever responded: “Yes, thank you for noticing. I especially enjoy watching my tent attempt to relocate itself to Delaware.”
Then there is heat.
Heat transforms an elegant outdoor arts festival into a slow moving documentary about human endurance. By noon, every artist looks like they have crossed a desert carrying handcrafted cutting boards.
Festival directors during a heat wave enter what medical experts probably describe as “advanced stress blinking.” They walk the site clutching radios while repeatedly asking:
- “Is everyone drinking water?”
- “Has anyone seen the artist in Booth 117?”
- “Why is the inflatable sponsor arch moving?”
The true breaking point for every festival director is surprise rain. Not forecast rain. Forecast rain is manageable. People prepare for forecast rain. Surprise rain is different. Surprise rain appears out of nowhere like an angry magician.
One minute the sky is blue. The next minute artists are wrapping inventory in plastic while simultaneously trying to lower tent walls, protect displays, save paperwork, hold onto tablecloths, and reassure customers that yes, technically this is still a relaxing shopping experience.
Festival directors during surprise rain enter full survival mode. Their brains become entirely occupied with questions such as:
- “Did everyone weight their tents?”
- “Which sponsor banner is airborne?”
- “Why is someone trying to use a beach umbrella as structural support?”
And yet somehow the most stressful weather of all is perfect weather. Perfect weather creates immediate suspicion.
Artists begin saying things like:
- “This feels too good.”
- “Something is coming.”
- “Check the radar.”
Patrons stroll leisurely carrying iced coffee while complimenting booths. Sales happen. Music plays. Everyone smiles nervously as though trapped in the first ten minutes of a disaster movie.
Because veteran festival people know one universal truth: No outdoor art festival ever ends without at least one completely unnecessary weather event.
Somewhere, always, there is a tent trying to escape.
Author: Robin Markowitz