Photos by Merisi, text by Corey Amaro.
Merisi wanted to document me at the brocante. I was gamed, as long as she followed two rules: Only photograph my good side, which meant the back of my head, and didn't catch the terrible brocante bug. She failed on both.
"Hey, is that my double chin I see in the photo? The one made larger by layers of apple strudel, apricot dumplings and potato ravioli?" I asked.
She didn't heed a word I said, not a word!
At the end of the day, we stopped at a local bar for a drink. Merisi wanted a typical drink from Provence.
She had a Pastis.
I had a Perrier.
French Husband had a beer.
We went to the brocante later than usual yesterday morning, blame it on Merisi's lovely dinner of potato raviolis with sage butter sauce.
At the brocante I met a woman from our village who makes potted flowers using nineteen century cemetery elements: Original painted tin leaves and porcelain flowers. She cements them into small metal cannisters.
Also she makes these cactus floral decorative objects.
They are much larger than the potted flowers.
Aren't they interesting?
Later I stumbled upon a dealer who dealt with old papers, postcards, books…. In a plastic crate he had eighteen century hand written booklets with book covers like I had never seen. The were made with hand painted wallpaper! The earliest one dated 1711.
21 booklets altogether. The dealer would not sell them separately. Hoping he would come down on his starting price, I begged got on my hands and knees pleading mercy I did… but the dealer wouldn't budge not one cent for the sake of my bleeding soul.
I asked him since he didn't want to lower his price maybe he could add in a book, or a postcard, or something….for free.
"No way." Was his response.
He wasn't fun.
We left.
French Husband said, "Are you going to regret not buying them."
I turned around and walked back to the stand and said, "Re Bonjour! (That is what they say to someone they have already said hello to, though I wanted to stick out my tongue instead…) Excuse me sir, but you know you are going to regret not selling me the booklets, they would be so happy chez moi, very happy."
He laughed waving me away.
The eighteen century, hand painted wallpaper covered, booklets moaned,
"At last, we have heard it all."
Brocanting is
serious business.
So much to see,
learn, dig through, sort. Talk about, study, evaluate.
It is an investment.
A large trunk was stuffed with home made linens, lace and underpinnings… I dug through them.
Pink ribbon straps, mother of pearl buttons, lace up chemises. I put one on over my shirt.
The bottom of the trunk was wet, it rained the night before. At least that is what I hope made the trunk wet…
I found the necklace yesterday at the brocante, and the ring too.
Lace, flowers, rings, necklaces… serious business I tell you. Serious business.
Cotton baby bonnets from last century. Mostly tattered to perfection.
French Husband shook his head, "Riped is nice, I don't understand."
"It's an art form darling." Educating him in the art of faded grandeur is also part of my job, I continued, "Torn, tattered, stained… equals perfection."
"Torn, tattered, stained… equals perfection… this man understands."
French Husband asked how much. He looked at me and said, "Is it worth it?"
I said, "Love is always worth the price isn't it?"
"So does this mean I can wear my old sweatshirt whenever I want, and my dead shoes when we go out, as you call them?"
Why does he have to be extreme, making the point with examples, that husband of mine?
"Dead shoes are dead, but they mean something to you. I get it." I realize that sometimes I have to let him win. But between you and me I am tossed those dead shoes to the back of the closet when we got home.
Brocanting treasure.
Old sweatshirt, and dead shoes included.
Worn with perfection means a lot to me.
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