- .- I . . . .. I . . AL A & NLIP

Wednesday, July 20, 1977 THE MICHIGAN DAIL
T houghts of '76 Art Fair make
tacky trip down Memory Lane

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Page Twenty-Three

. PgeTwnt-Tre

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This Art Fair stroller grins with amazement at the high turn-
out of people at the fair.
Art fairs remain
a summer tradition
acontinued from Page 3) money and having a good time
East University portion of the I really dig it."
fair. "It's something to really lool
"It was created by a group of forward to," said Shellie Good
. man. "I save up all my mone
architecture students and it is from my summer job and com
made entirely out of sail cloth. back to Ann Arbor to buy all m
I think it's going to be a real birthday presents for the year.'
attraction."
There are problems, of course,
with putting on an event of the
magnitude of the Ann Arbor Art
fairs. The crowded parking situ-
ation that already plagues Ann
Arbor deteriorates perceptibly.
Shoplifting a n d hold - ups of
booths has also plagued recent
fairs.
While some area merchants
selcoane the deluge of cus torn-
Its generated by the fair othersV
Sauld rather not be hassled.
lme area residents also com
plain of the crowds.
"I'm not really all that in-
terested in art," said John Mer
it1. "But I really can't stand
arge crowds. I try to avoid
'Walking through town at all dur
gt the fair."A R
Bui mont residents disagree, A R T
atd stem to enjoy the crowds.
"I just love it, man," saad
mie Withers. "It's like Wood-
or something, you know.
I mean all these tripped out
te types are around and Canva
"everybod~y is spending their
T-SI
ATHLI
Find What You're
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(Continued from Page 15)
Oh, oh, I thought to myself,
trouble.
"Are you here," he asked me,
with a suave tone, "as an inter-
ested participant in what we
call the Arts? Or merely one of
lb5 tourist)? A-if you will--a
gaisker?"
"A tourist," a snapped, "and
I wvont"
"Beg pardon?"
I shrugged. "So beg."
"I see you, my goodly fellow
I know you for what you really
are a padrone of the finer
things in life, an appreciator of
the best- a cis'ilized gentle-
mhan-"
'Ct it," I said. "What. do
YOU want?."
"Simply this, friend. I have a
booth- over across the way-
where can be found the latest
advancements in the art of
sculpture, the most gracefll
etchings, the-"
I screamed. "Aaaaagh!" and
ran away, with my hands
thrown high in the air.
The scream rang and
rang . .
I reached over and shut off
the alarm clock, damp with
sweat, and lay back in-my bed,
shaking. The Art Fair-the Art
Fair-so it had been no more
than a nightmare...
The clock read 5:19, and I still
had two hours left to sleep. Re-
lieved, I rolled over to go back
to sleep.
"Goodnight, Herbert," I said,
to the picture on the wall; then
I wiped off the bed. The picture
was shedding. Real cats shed-
not pictures-wait a minute--
what was this stuff brushing off
the sheets?
I picked it up and examined
the stuff closely.
Glitter glue.

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Art, inflated, on a stick



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