Weekday
The weekly feature page of the University Daily Kansan October 11, 1978
Reliving the
BONNER SPRINGS—In the center of a wooded grove near Bonner Springs stands a small gazebo. His spindly, carved posts are brightly painted; its pointed footwork is dappled by sunlight shining over them.
Inside the gazebo, two men and two women cluster around a sheet of music. The women are dressed in full skirts of velvet and brocade. The men stand, a little knot-kneed, in colored hose
A tiny "moon maid" is one of the crafts available at the festival.
On cue, their voices mingle in a lifting magical song.
muralists are part of the living history that has blessed us in a four-acre near the Agricultural Hall of Fame—the second annual Kansas City Renaissance Festival.
the festival, which began Saturday and will be held every month this month, is a benefit for the Art in ART program.
SIX MONTHS OF intense work by more than 500 volunteers, area professionals and a consultant group from Minnesota's Renaissance Festival have produced a time warp for people to escape into, shrouded in the "real world" and a busy highway by a grove of trees.
The entrance to this magic world is guarded carefully by women clan in pearl garb. For a woman with a ring, the entrance is too small.
The strange world inside the gates is so delicate, so uneven, the wrong turn on the hay path will take you bathtub. The strange path will take you bathtub.
Small craft shops line the paths that weave throughout the trees. Some are sturdy wooden booths with hand-swn dolls or dried flower arrangements hanging on the walls. Some are just frames of tree limbs lashed together with rope and decorated with banners of gauze.
ONLY CREAFTS were practiced during the time
otherwise. Including, including, needlework,
powerswearing, metalworking.
On one side of the path, a smith, dressed in roughly woven muslin, pounds on a rod of glowing iron. A crowd gathers in front of his anvil and watches as he fashions a nail.
As he thrusts the iron rod back into a pile of glowing coals, a well-dressed man hoots.
"All that for a lousy nail!"
"Papa, I no wait - it marry that-a man!" wails one actress.
Her turquise br- cade gown trails behind her
as she as she throws herself at the "papa" z-
shabby.
Further down the path, in a wide clearing, a group of actors stomp around on the wooden stage of the Mernaid Theatre. In pidgin Italian, they quarrel over the daughter's arranged marriage.
"BUT THERESA, mia bambina, you gotta marry that a man, he pleads. "I need-a the money!"
Past the Mermaid, in a larger clearing, festival-goers have an extensive view of this capsule Renaissance watch. Under a clump of trees, two musicians play recorders. Their reedy tones walt over the noise from a group of chattering children who are dressed in rags and smeared with ash.
Food shops line one edge of the clearing, offering such Renaissance fare as scotch eggs, turkey drumsticks and steaming crusty popovers laced with sweet butter.
At a bend in the path, a gaily painted mime delights some elderly ladies with his antics. They
use the same old trick to elude them.
THESE LADIES are typical of most visitors to
this world. At first they seem to hold back, cautiously enjoying the plays and music. They sense the conspicuousness of their 20th century clothing. They become the anachronism.
But slowly, they are infected with the spirit of the festival. In clauses Eikabiraten English, they order food from vendors. Some even fall to the attack and die when they see a pohlerman and his lady strolling by.
There are, however, a few humorous reminders that this is all just make-believe.
Despite the meticulous attempts at creating the atmosphere, there's no escape from the fact that those white plastic blobs half-hidden by the trees on one edge of the festival are portable bathrooms.
AND THE WENCH who faintly shouts, 'Give your ale `e're, cold and fresh from the king's own bloody cellar!' is selling 3.2 hect. A Kansas mast on the wall of her shop.
Some of the 20th century lapezes are so obscure that they escape unwitting eyes. Few people notice that the cufflinks on one troubadour's lavish green velvet shirt are tiny golden marjangiana leaves. Or that one knight dressed in purple hues and a golden doublet is impaling around in a foot
RENAISSANCE
just the spectators don't seem to notice or to care. They become wrapped up in the delights of the time. Their eyes glow as they watch one of the casts at the festival at the Royal Procession.
BEHIND THE TRUMPETERS is a bird of pink-and-green-clad acrobats running and jumping like rabbits. Then, slowly and stately, the king and queen stride into view.
sumptum shines through the trees, glinting off their crows and streaking the velvet and brocade of their robes. On the rise behind them, their entourage waits, holding banners fluttering in the air.
At the top of one hay-strewn path, two trumpet appears. The soundy sounds of their long, thin bodies shiver the shelter they are on.
For a moment, the crowd gazes, entranced at the procession and sees not a bunch of people pretending, but real kings and queens and knights and damslam.
And then, somebody's automatic camera clicks.
The king and queen of the festival, Michael Bradshaw and Maggie Jacobs, made their first procession among the peasants and the public Saturday.
Story by Melissa J. Thompson
Photos by Trish Lewis
One of the mimes at the festival plays tricks on a group of spectators. The festival continues every Saturday and Sunday in October