La Macchina Fotografica

It was raining peacefully on Sunday morning. The streets were washed clean by a storm that had hit the day before. The road shimmered in the weak light, twinkling with each drop from the sky. On a tempestuous Friday before the storm, I’d been hit between the eyes by a hurtful comment from a friend. It left me reeling. Sunday’s gray drizzle seemed appropriate.

Despite the rain and the winter season I went early to the farmer’s market. I was thinking of a baguette. And maybe a wedge of cheese. I wanted to talk to the chili man. And ask the asparagus guy when spring would arrive. I needed the farmers just then. So, I bundled up and went to the market.

This time of year it’s easy to park at the farmer’s market. The fair-weather marketers are long gone, waiting now for their tomatoes and sweet corn and warm summer breezes. Rain doesn’t help bring in the crowd but it does enhance a quiet market day for a man with a bruised soul.

Alone with my baskets I pulled up my collar. I was still grumbling to myself about Friday. But, some Swiss chard caught my eye. Pulling out two dollars for a nice bunch of it, I overheard a conversation at the next stand.

“How is the most lovely jewel of the universe today?” a man with a European accent asked a smiling woman. The woman had been alone at her booth. Before the man with the accent arrived she hadn’t been smiling. I looked at the young woman who had just sold me the chard and we both laughed. One comment brought three smiles—the best market deal of the day. With a spark of renewal I went to see the chili man.

“I want you to know that I sent some of your chili sauce to my friend in Chicago. He said it was the best he’d ever tasted,” I said to him.

“Well, of course!” the chili man replied. He is nothing if not self-assured of his chili-sauce prowess. “I just made some new mash. Try this.”

Down the way, the asparagus man had nothing but potatoes. “The asparagus will be here in about four weeks,” he pronounced. The first day of spring had now been declared. “Are you getting any good pictures today?”

The egg couple saw me coming from their mountain of egg cartons. They had a dozen, extra-large, brown, organic eggs waiting for me. Just the kind I like.

“I had to get my eggs at Safeway last week,” I said. They both groaned. “They were watery. Stale,” I added.

“We have you spoiled,” the man of the couple said, looking up from his stack of a billion eggs. “See you next week.”

The young woman who usually sells me my baguette wasn’t there. I got one anyway from a girl I’d never met. Then I got a small salami from the French charcuterie guy and asked for his advice on sausages. At that point I realized that my basket was overflowing and I needed to stop.

On the way out there was another man with an overflowing basket. Like me, he’d bought his baguette. After making a photo of him I realized that we are all the same. Every one of us can be made just a little happier with a baguette in our basket and a trip to farmer’s market.

One of the best things about cell phones is that I can now talk to myself in public. Not that many years ago it was considered odd to have a conversation with oneself. Now people are talking aloud seemingly no one just about everywhere. True, they usually have some kind of Bluetooth earpiece attached to to them and they are, theoretically, talking to an other human being somewhere. But, who knows for sure?

I don’t wear a Bluetooth device. Nor do I enjoy cell-phone conversations. But, I’ve considered getting a cheap earpiece just so I can talk to myself without being self-conscious. I figure if it’s okay that everyone is jabbering into cyberspace it’s perfectly normal to jabber to oneself. After all, most of us are in our own little world anyway.

It’s easy to spot people in their own little world. I love going into public spaces and finding people who seem alone in thought, daydream or preoccupation. If one is a photographer one needs to be quick. The moments are fleeting. Usually some kind of external stimulus prods our dreamers back into the social universe. Often the click of a camera shutter is all that it takes to jolt them.

I feel connected to those lost in their own universe. It makes me feel that we really are all the same—inextricably linked yet very much alone. Seeing others in this state sends me off into my own little world. I wonder about them; their life, their history, their story. And If they start talking I secretly hope that it’s just a conversation with themselves and that there’s no silly Bluetooth gadget hanging off their ear.

Sunday I bought a fish. Sick of Safeway and its hermetic seals, I went to the farmer’s market. There you know what the food is and from where it comes. Contrary to the Safeway illusion, meat is not born in plastic trays. It comes from animals that once lived.

I am not a vegetarian though I respect those who are. Vegetarians are keenly aware of the sources of meat. Most markets in most other lands display meat more honestly than we generally do in the USA. Heads are still on many of the carcasses. Sometimes the animals are still alive at market. I’ve always believed that this is a more honest way to deal with meat, everyone should know from where it comes.

After I bought the fish, a young man cleaned it for me. I couldn’t help but think of our Native Americans and their sacred food ceremonies. Native Americans only killed what they absolutely needed. They treated the animals they ate with reverence, some as deities. The young man cleaned the fish efficiently and quietly. I watched him from behind a mesh curtain. The screen separated me from the act and made it feel more ceremonial. That fish died for me, a realization I’d never know in the Safeway aisles.

In the middle of an art fair I looked up. Atop a canvas tent a plain banner fluttered in a foggy breeze. Below was the spectacle of event. Artists, patrons, food vendors and children mingled amongst artifacts of the creative spirit. Yet, above it all was the homely banner. Boring and ordinary, it captivated me.

It was like a old crow in a field of peacocks. The paintings below it screamed crimson and scarlet with dashes of cobalt blue. Blown glass and sculpture stood propped on precarious mounts and pedestals while the lazy flag fluttered above them. This for sale, that for sale, “Look at me,” said every artist in his or her own way. And then there was the flag. It seemed so effortless in its being. It was a plain, old banner and that was that.

Sometimes the chaos of life makes us look up and see the current of peace that runs through it all. Sometimes we forget and get caught in the rapids. A mouthful of water and we gasp for air. We show off, we try hard, we become human doings instead of human beings. And then a tiny flag teaches us a lesson.

Hot-house tomatoes come to market early in spring. This is too early for a tomato. Tomatoes herald the beginning of summer—real summer, not some fabrication designed to hurry along a year before its time. Hot-house tomatoes remind me of Christmas decorations that show up before Thanksgiving. Sadly, too many patrons of the farmer’s market succumb to the temptation. “Look!” they say. “Tomatoes!!!!!” And they go buy the mealy, half-green half-real approximations of the real thing.

But then, one day, one does see the real thing. Real, vine-ripened, grown-in-dirt-outside-where-they-were-meant-to-be-grown tomatoes show up at the market. There is a reverence to picking out the perfect tomato. It is different than stuffing one’s bag with string beans or broccoli. The tomato is so seductive, so anticipatory, and its color is the most beautiful of reds.

Tomatoes can be photographed and painted forever and they remain the most perfect of still-life subjects (with apologies to Edward Weston and his peppers). Just writing about them compels me to buy some, put them on a table and shine a light onto them. But, it is only late June and I am still wary. Why rush it? There is nothing worse than buying what looks like the perfect tomato and then having it taste like cotton. I’d rather stick with brussels sprouts a few weeks longer.

We encounter other souls all the time. I barely know myself while the complex world passes me by. It doesn’t stop me from wondering. Who are they? What is their story?

I notice it mostly when at the Sunday farmer’s market. It is said that ego separation is an illusion, that we are all connected in ways too profound to fathom. Yet, I walk in a bubble through the market, making assumptions about this person or that. Often, a person will remind me of someone else, another remote encounter from another time. The connection is made. My mind plays games, I make photographs.

Photography puts a frame around these impressions and puts them to a test. It turns the whole experience into flat abstraction. Suddenly the swirling activity is silenced. A kind of truth is found. Souls seem lost in their own world, peering through eyes from the capsules of their bodies. Everyone seems to be on a similar path. We all keep moving.

Do those people look at me and make their own assumptions? I wonder of whom I remind them. Do I look like someone’s father? Or son? Or lost brother? Occasionally, someone stares. Sometimes I stare at them and forget that I am doing so. It’s all a silly game, a game of making the connection—of searching for some kind of truth. Units with chattering minds, we make things up as we go.

My camera protects me. It makes it seem that my bubble is secure. I look, analyze, click the shutter. Then I go home and look to see what the crystal lens glass has revealed. The mystery is never solved.

The human race is more connected than ever. Go to a bar on a Friday night and everyone is texting everyone else. The antennae are up. You can contact more people on the planet than ever before. That’s not all. Soon, aliens from distant stars will be texting hot girls in bars. Single men of Planet Earth won’t stand a chance. Already, the girls text one another across town when the guys start to bore them, about five minutes into most conversations. Oddly, the guys don’t seem to mind. Maybe that’s the problem.

Texting, blogging, surfing, and googling. There are more people and more information at our fingertips than we can handle. I connect with my Facebook friends more than I actually talk to people—you know, face them in real life and listen to their stories, their hopes, wishes, and desires. I’m not complaining. I think the world is ever expanding, constantly getting better. But, sometimes, we need real human contact.

The market is our only hope. That’s why I had to go back to the farmer’s market last week. I couldn’t stand it anymore. Going to market is one of my few chances these days to connect to real people. And if Safeway were the only place for me to go, well, I’d rather shop online. The life of an artist is a lonely one and sometimes we need people to talk to.

I see the smiles of people at the farmer’s market and compare them to the grimaces at Safeway. There are fewer people at Safeway but we are always bumping into one another. We all have this common, mental wavelength. “Get out of the way,” we grumble to ourselves. “I need to finish shopping and get out of here.”

No one seems to be in a hurry at the farmer’s market. There, you can talk to the people who grew your food, get a recipe, see your friends, take a bite of sheep’s-milk cheese. You can smell the air, touch a tomato, notice the flowers in the flower vendor’s hat. I don’t see anyone texting either. Mostly, cell phones are away, people are strolling, like they did on the boardwalk at the Jersey Shore when I was a little boy.

I marvel at how readers find me and my blog from around the world. And I feel gratitude for the whole concept of blogging. Our connectedness, even if by glowing computer displays, is making the world a better place. But, when I see young people at a bar texting rather than communicating face-to-face, it makes me sad. When I resort to buying my produce at a corporate entity that crams my brain with canned commercials over its sound system, I feel resigned. So, I have rediscovered the market, where people are people—real live people selling real live produce.

The dailiness of life has this hum to it. Like an old refrigerator on its last leg, it drowns out the nuances of life. Then the fridge finally dies and…quiet. Birds chirp, you can hear the breeze again. Turning off the electricity might be a prescription for sanity.

For years part of my weekly routine was to visit the Sunday farmer’s market in San Rafael. The catch is that one needs to get there early, preferably by 8:00 AM. Lately life’s tasks and goals seem to have ensconced themselves between me, the farmers and their market. Sunday morning comes, I take a look at the clock, I passively watch 8:00 come and go. I go to Safeway instead.

The local Safeway has been slowly killing my soul. The music, the bad produce, the indifference, the ads over the sound system, and the corporate sterility all combine to put me in a grumpy mood. This past Sunday I woke up and told myself, “No more Safeway. Can’t do it.” I found my market baskets and drove up to San Rafael.

My heart swelled when I drove over the small hill at the Civic Center and saw the tents and canopies of the market. A stuffed produce truck meandered ahead of me, casting off a few lettuce leaves in its wake. Patrons scurried from their cars with empty baskets in hand. The warm sun was basking the market in springtime glow. People were smiling. I felt like I was home again.

Every season is different at the market. The dance of the seasons are always in full throttle. In March it is asparagus. Asparagus is like the trumpet section of an orchestra. It blares out, heralding spring’s arrival. When local asparagus comes to market, we know that everything is changing. Could summer be far behind? What next? Tomotoes? Sweet corn? Eggplant?

There’s no need to get ahead of ourselves with the bright colors of summer. Spring’s pastels mean fava beans, tender onions, leafy lettuce, artichokes, and so much more. Summer’s assertiveness can wait. There is asparagus to eat! And what could better to celebrate my reunion with the market than to share with you this recipe. It is an asparagus salad with chopped, hard-boiled egg? It makes me think of Easter. It makes me ponder the wonders of rebirth. It brings out the old cooking teacher in me. Enjoy!

Asparagus Salad with Olive Oil, Lemon Juice and Hard Boiled Egg

Serves 4.

2 lbs. fresh asparagus
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil
lemon juice – freshly squeezed from 1/2 lemon
salt – to taste
3 eggs – hard boiled and finely chopped

Cut off the bottom inch of the asparagus spears. Peel the lower stem portion of the asparagus with a paring knife so that the tough outer skin of the asparagus is removed. Do so by setting the knife about 1/8 to 1/16 of an inch into the base of the asparagus and gently pulling the knife up towards the tip end. You will want to hold the spear with the tip pointing towards you while doing this. The knife will guide itself and remove only the tough, outer portion of the asparagus. Depending on the freshness of the asparagus, you will remove several inches in length of the skin.

Soak the asparagus in fresh water for about ten minutes, removing any grit that may have lodged in the tips.

Heat a large 12 inch pan filled 2/3 of the way with water until it boils rapidly. Add about a tablespoon of salt to the water and then add the asparagus. You may have to cook the asparagus in several batches depending upon the size of the pan. Boil the asparagus until it just begins to turn limp and then remove it from the water. Drain the asparagus and arrange it on a serving platter. An attractive way to arrange it is to lay down a first row of asparagus and then lay subsequent layers so that they cover the preceding layers beneath except for the tips.

Put the lemon juice in a small bowl. Add a generous pinch of salt. Slowly add the olive oil, beating the mixture vigorously while doing so. Taste the mixture and adjust the ingredients if necessary.

Pour the dressing over the top of the asparagus and sprinkle the chopped egg over it. Serve the dish while it is still warm.