The parking lot was hot. As hot as hell, or as hot as a parking lot in the middle of Rhode Island at 12pm on a summer afternoon can be – the two are synonymous. A few lost clouds scuttled over a dark-cloaked couple walking across the asphalt. The black-painted fingernails of their conjoined hands glimmered in the sun as their hair fell over their eyes. In typical goth fashion, they seem as excited about walking towards The Dark Arts Festival as they would walking towards their own death. Long strings of caution tape attached to light posts fluttered in the wind. An older, middle-aged woman with two kids and a coffee strolled up to the line. She looked at Tess Lyons and me. We both looked frazzled. Sweat was pouring into our eyes. She furtively glanced at a charming couple from the dungeons strolling towards the doors and asked, “What’s going on here?”
The large folding table I was awkwardly canoodling slipped out of my arms. The mother put a hand out to block her kid from running forward.
“Oh, the Motif 20th Anniversary Party, of course!”
A flurry of activity exploded in our little section of paved paradise. R1 Indoor Karting, our gracious hosts, gave us carte blanche for the first half; the Food Truck & Drink awards. John Fuzek drove up in his huge truck, pulling a stage, exclaiming, “Now, where do I put this thing?”
Vendors threw up their tents with the ease of circus-goers. Hot Potato Mike, Mike McAteer, directed the fleet of food trucks. Back in the Beer Garden, the ladies of Grey Sail, Proclamation, and Kamoti laughed as they helped each other move tables and set up shop. The festivities start with the humble words from MC Camilla Dilan Akbas and Chef David Rivoli, “Hey everybody, shut up!” Joking- but what really did shut everybody up was the soulful tunes from the Unlikely Strummers before the presentation of the first batch of awards. Listening to these older folks strum the ukulele and drinking a frozen lemonade from Cosmos brought you right to the relaxed vibes of Hawaii.
Fuzek’s stage found a home, and on it, many musicians, such as Beth Baron, Nicole Gauthier, and Maddie McGill, performed. Under their acoustic-rocking gazes, children danced with painted faces and balloon animals. Meanwhile, others joined in mysterious booths, palms were read, poems were written, and covered “blinddate” books were sold to unsuspecting customers. A tall man, presumably leaking over from the Dark Arts Festival, removed his bloodied clown mask to take a bite of his hot dog. A small crowd of people passed around the mosaic glasses of their different beers. It was as though Motif opened its pages and threw a festival from its contents.
There is nothing that ends a party like the Providence Drum Troupe and their newest star edition, Worma. I first saw his fuchsia, furry, 10ft stringy figure while I was setting up for the second half – the Bartender Awards. His big pink head bobbed past the door windows while a group of people flocked around him in the setting sun, swinging their limbs wildly as though they were undergoing a music-induced exorcism. I was caught staring in awe. Then, I realized a woman next to me was experiencing the same thing. She turned to me, “Jesus.”
“I know.”
Beth Metal grabbed two ends of a forest green cloth and spread them over her table, smoothing the wrinkles. She delicately placed a few animal bones, rose petals, and rocks around a sign for Tarot card readings. Behind a glass wall that separated her from the arcade was a slightly surrealist blacklight mural of the PVD skyline. It was painted by a French artist named Antoni. The buildings appeared to be winking.
In the back room of R1, there were scattered pool tables, tables, chairs, and five bartenders surrounded by couches making drinks for a buzzed audience. The Mixology Competition, act 1 of the 2nd award ceremony, had begun. The ladies from the beer garden had made it upstairs and had joined Kristies Kraftails. Her booth was advertising her Rainbow Nuts. Jamie, from Grey Sail, held a full martini that was given to her from the competition. She looked around with eyes of panic, “I have to work in the morning!” No one helped her, so she shrugged, laughed; took a big sip. As the night wore on, that attitude became the theme. With each award, the bartenders screamed for their nominated friends, for the winner, no matter who. Beers were spilled on the floor; celebratory bodies were picked up and thrown over cheering backs; Burlesque dancers from Third House Events stalked in from dark hallways and performed under hastily thrown dollar bills. I stood on a stool over a kiddy pool pouring white wine into outstretched glasses for the Distance Pour Competition.
It was absolute madness – in the best way. For that is what Motif is, a madhouse. A magazine for the weird, the dreamers, the underrepresented, the artistic, the beautiful, and the musicians. A home for the avant-garde. It is for the ones who stay up all night writing, painting, and dancing. It is for the ones who stay inside all day sleeping. It is also for the ones who go out into the world just as weird. They bludgeon the Earth with their ideas. They pull streamers from the sun and wrap them around the lines of the city. As Kerouac said, “The only people for me are the mad ones.” I think everyone there that day would agree. •
