Art. Grit. And a Safety Net for When Life Falls Apart
David Nelson forged a legacy in silver and in helping Sawdust artists survive.

Some artists find a festival. Others build it. And some, like David Nelson, don’t just build the booths, they build the backbone.

If you’ve walked the sawdust-covered paths of the Sawdust Art Festival anytime in the past 56 years, chances are you’ve passed David’s “country store”. Maybe you saw him making jewelry, soldering silver behind his bench. Maybe you traded a story for a piece of jewelry. Or maybe you never noticed him at all, which is fine with David. He prefers his jewelry grabs your attention before he does.

The festival exists because of the creative drive and tenacity of its founding artists—their blood, sweat, and tears. And it thrives because of artists like David, who didn’t just carve out a place for themselves, they hammered, soldered, and shaped a community.

The Working Man’s Jeweler and Unofficial Safety Net Builder

David doesn’t just make jewelry. He forges connection through silver, grit, and steadfast community care. In a town known for its sunshine and sparkle, David has always focused on what lies beneath: the scaffolding that holds artists up when life crashes down.

Decades ago, when a fellow Sawdust artist was dying of cancer with no safety net for her child, David and a few others stepped up. They helped create what would become the Sawdust Benevolence Fund—a quiet but powerful lifeline for artists in crisis. “It wasn’t just about charity,” he says. “It was about family. We take care of our own.”

And for over 30 years, he’s done exactly that. Quietly. Respectfully. Without applause. “You may never know who you helped,” he says. “But you’ll know you did.”

From Outsider to Participant in a Movement

David’s story began in 1968, when, at age 15, he traveled from Texas to visit his brother at Sawdust. The artists, the atmosphere, the energy—it left him in awe.

A year later he was back, helping fellow Sawduster Tracey Moscaritolo manage her booth. Then, in 1970, at just 17, he moved to Laguna with a duffel bag, a sleeping bag, and a briefcase packed with beads and jewelry tools. Dropped off at Sawdust, he tucked his belongings into Tracey’s booth, hung a few of his drawings and watercolors, and got to work making jewelry.

Back then, there were no staff, no sponsors, just free spirits creating art. And the only rule was that you had to make what you sold. 

That early rebellion became a cultural landmark. And David became one of its memory-keepers.

He’s watched the show grow from late-night jam sessions to a professionally run operation. But he’s stayed rooted in the founding ethos: art first, artists always. “We’ve gotten more polished,” he says. “But we can’t lose the creative drive of artists. That’s where the soul lives.”

Silver, Grit, and a Lifetime Guarantee

At 72, David still works with the same integrity he did at 17. Every piece he sells is made by hand, backed by a lifetime guarantee, and passed from one generation to the next. “Today, I make jewelry for the kids and grandkids of the customers I had 50 years ago.”

He calls it “working man’s jewelry”—durable, meaningful, and intentionally untrendy. He doesn’t sell online. He’s never had a website. “I don’t want clicks. I want connection,” he says. “I’d rather talk to someone face-to-face than post about it.”

Over the years, he’s bartered jewelry for dental work, traded pieces for clothes, and taught jewelry-making to adults and kids whose eyes lit up at the chance to make something real. “That’s the part I love,” he says. “That spark. That moment when someone believes in their own hands.”

Fame, Faith, and the Bench That Never Closes

Yes, he’s met Muhammad Ali. Yes, he’s had drinks with Natalie Wood and Robert Wagner. But what matters most to David are the smaller, quieter moments, the ones that don’t show up in headlines.

He tears up talking about Make-A-Wish kids who visit his booth. “You show them how the jewelry is made, give them a coin for the pond. That’s what sticks,” he says. “They don’t care about silver prices. They care about that feeling—that they’re making something real.”

He never had children of his own, but he counts many students, young artists, and strangers who became family through his shared craft. “That’s legacy,” he says. “Not just what you make. Who you lift. It’s clients becoming friends who come back year after year.”

The Festival’s Beating Heart

The Sawdust Art Festival isn’t just a show. It’s a lifeline. And David is one of its most unassuming architects—a man who forged silver and, somewhere along the way, forged resilience into the culture itself.

So if you pass by his booth this summer, don’t just admire the jewelry. Ask about the old days. Ask about the fund. Ask about the time they raised money by passing a hat and calling it grace. You’ll get a story. Maybe a spark. And you’ll understand that the heart of Sawdust is the adventure of experiencing art, how it’s made, and connecting with those who created it.