Artswells: a bubble of art and magic

Artswells. You hold a special place in my heart. A green foresty one filled with artists, musicians, gypsy treeplanters, decorated with colourful old rag bunting. My favourite festival, I've been telling everyone I met the past year. I couldn't agree more. I come home under the moonrise, shooting stars, northern lights. We scream with delight after jamming in the cold all night, when the sun rises over the mountains and the moon sets like a giant orange ball behind the trees. Early morning smoke over the river vanishes when I kick my boots off and hide under a blanket. 

Wells is so far away, a full day road trip away. Driving through forest fire smoke, thinking what on earth are we doing? As we arrive in the tiny town of wells, the big lake awaits to wake up our tired bodies. Cold water swims are espresso for the body, getting it ready for a festival of dance and art! A familiar feeling comes over me as we roll in through the magical little town. Surrounded by mountain green, a patchwork of river and pippi longstocking houses brings me right back to last year, frolicking around the festival. I left feeling so inspired, and now I'm back! 

Music pops up everywhere, like an endless jam going for four days and nights straight. The awesome mix of people makes Artswells what it is. Drunk punks, blessed coast hippies and everything in between. If Artswells was a drink, it would be kombucha with whiskey. Every single person you meet is so freaking talented, it's mindblowing. From accordion players to tattoo artists, herbalists and poets, everyone is an artist in Wells. 

When everyone is weird, we all become normal. When you can all be yourself completely, there is no judgment. It's a magical place they created in Wells. A bubble of art and joy, music and play. The skies stayed clear of smoke, but the fire inside of me is going crazy with inspiration to create. Oh Artswells, you did it again. 

Artswells, and the livin' is easy

As a new day slowly rises over Artswells, I wake up to the ticking of the rain on the car. It's the quiet time of night, when all the wine is gone and the fire is nothing but a trail of smoke. People find shelter under picnic tables, trees and inside damp greenhouses, cuddling up to stay warm. I hear guitars playing. Life is never really silent when you're surrounded by musicians. 

In the tiny town of Wells artists meet for a yearly gathering of jamming, drinking, dancing and celebrating life. Having so many talents in one place is like swimming in a pool of chocolate with your mouth open: you want allllll of it! Overflowing with inspiration I frolick from the little church where French chansons are rolling from the tongue of sweet singer Madeline Tasquin. My kind of praying! In the Sunset Theatre the popcorn is fresh and violinist Jacques takes us on journeys through the afternoon. The rain stops and as the sun pierces colours through street flags, I get ready for a night of poetry and heavy dancing in the basement. The harder I dance, the more I lose my voice. 

Everybody is sweaty and moving like never before. Like snakes we crawl up walls, like sardines in a can we slip and slide to the same beat, trying to fit more and more people in front of the fan. I found a flowery dress with an underskirt that goes woooosh when I spin and so I spin and spin until I forget where I am, who I am. 

Outside the starry night cools down the body heat. Frisky fingers play the piano on wheels, wheeling it to wherever the jam is. There is a clarinet player and banjos and guitars. I gather around and the last sip of my voice vanishes. Like cigarette smoke we puff cold night air out with every word of Summertime, and the living is easy. Then we sing People are strange, when you're a stranger and it feels so right. That moment under the stars, surrounded by artists, writers, musicians, firetwirlers, poets and gypsies of all kind, I am home.