“I was not—” Fiona stopped. Looked at the handle. “Okay, maybe I was.”
The Festival of Artsgrounds were crowded with afternoon visitors, tourists and locals wandering between sculpture installations and painter demonstrations. Stella led Fiona through the maze of exhibits. The festival was over, but some of the art was exhibited longer.
“The Spirit of Laguna show is this way,” Stella said. “They had a student exhibition category this year.”
“And you submitted something?”
“I submitted a series. They accepted it.”
Fiona glanced at her. “You didn’t mention that.”
“I’m mentioning it now.”
The student pavilion was a white tent with gallery lighting, work displayed on temporary walls with careful labels and artist statements. Stella led Fiona past watercolors and ceramics and digital prints until they reached the photography section.
“Okay,” she said. “Close your eyes.”
“Really?”
“Please.”
Fiona closed her eyes. Stella guided her forward, positioned her in front of the display wall.
“Open.”
Fiona opened her eyes.
And went completely still.
The series was called “The Shack Breathes.” Threelarge prints on archival paper, Stella’s name on the placard below.
The first was the Bernie triptych — three shots arranged horizontally. Bernie’s face cycling through horror at an empty coffee cup, panic as he tried to flag down Joey, and victory when the refill arrived. The whole emotional journey of a man and his caffeine addiction, captured in seconds.
The second was the dining room at lunch rush. Everyone in motion—Joey weaving between tables, a family laughing over shared plates, two teenagers on a first date pretending not to notice each other, an elderly couple holding hands over their sandwiches. Chaos that somehow held together like a painting, every element in exactly the right place.
The third was Margo at the grill. She wasn’t looking at the camera—she was watching the dining room through the pass-through window, her expression caught in that moment Stella had learned to wait for. Quiet amusement. Like she was watching a show only she could see.
Fiona didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just stood there, looking.
“The judges called it ‘documentary photography with emotional intelligence,’” Stella said, her voice smaller than she wanted it to be. “Which is judge-speak for ‘pretty good, I guess.’”
Still nothing.
“Mum?”
Fiona’s hand came up to cover her mouth. Her shoulders shook once, twice.
“Mum, are you?—”
“When did you learn to do this?” Fiona’s voice was barely a whisper.
“I don’t know. Gradually? I just kept practicing. Kept looking.”
“This—” Fiona stepped closer to the Bernie triptych, her hand hovering over the glass. “The timing on this. The way you’ve captured the whole narrative arc in three frames. And the composition on the dining room shot — how did you evenseeall of that happening at once?”
