One never knows what one will find at the brocante.
The pleasure of the hunt is the unexpected, the discovery of old objects, the stories that old objects evoke, the emotion that stirs up with wanting and letting go.
As today was the first weekend in months of cold, wet, unfriendly brocante weather, brocantes sprouted everywhere in the heart of Provence. Bringing a wave of beautiful antiques to the surface.
Early this morning I had a tough decision to make: Which brocante to go to first. Oh the joy, after such withdrawal, of having that decision to make.
One of my favorite antique vendors never disappoints has an eye for clever, unique and hard to find curiosities.
From her bags and boxes of long ago treasures, she pulled out a set of antique puppet heads. Worn lovingly from play. Such pristine happiness in toys that survive the life of childhood.
Madame "Best Taste", told me that her father was a puppeteer. Not only did he direct the strings, but he also designed puppets for some of the best theaters in Europe.
Yes, the brocante in more than old things… it is the conversation, the stories, that tell our lives to one another. Stories from strangers, or from people such as Madame Best Taste, that maybe never would be shared if an object of curiosities didn't tie us together.
I bought the puppet heads.
A seventeen-century tabernacle.
Why not?
It is not every day that a tabernacle appears at the brocante. The antique dealer had closed his shop in Isle sur la Sorgue, deciding to sell-out at the brocante. Years of collecting spread out around his van.
Eighteen-century, hand-carved chess pieces.
A complete set.
Who would want to let them go? Such an intricate work of art.
The larger pieces, secretively unscrewed. Were smelling salts or gun powder or other powerful stuff could be hidden.
As I toyed with them in my hand it was hard to imagine anything so divine, made as well. A plastic chess piece at the dollar shop doesn't evoke much imagination, let alone beauty.
A wooden, hand-painted marriage box. Boxes such as these would contain a married couple's important papers, as a filing cabinet or computer does today.
A hand-painted box. It sort of made we want to decorate my plain looking laptop. Collage it or something.
Standing as tall as the trees surrounding it an antique Swedish clock happened to stop by at the French brocante.
In the nearly thirty years that I have been going to the brocantes, I can expect to see certain old things: Linens, books, dishes, clocks, urns, pottery… and usually I can count of one or two eighteen century pieces, most likely is sad shape… but a Swedish clock? At an antique market yes, but at a weekend brocante? That is like seeing a diamond in the cracker jack box.
A pair of century old wooden champagne (or wine) bottle racks, a wooden farm table, a gold metal candelabra, a painting, an iron chain.
A white worn antique Provencal confit pot.
This came home with me.
The dealer apologized for its sorry state. Little did he know that those worn, cracked, wrinkles of years of being used sing to me. Perfection for me doesn't come in neat new packages.
A small oil painting sat on a chair, I named it, "Lunch in the Garden".
That was my day, soaking in the sun at the brocante feasting on the soul of things that lived to tell.
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