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February 25, 2008

Bizarre Bazaars and Flea Market Forays

For months I’d wanted to make the flea-market rounds to look for small, well-proportioned picture frames not available in shops anymore. In my search, if I should chance upon a model bark or brig as well, that certainly would be a boon.
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On Sundays, eccentrics emerge from their brickwork lairs as if from hiding. On the subway: A stout, cheerful, grizzle-haired African-American with a young face and no eyes talked steadily to himself in a genial way. At the flea market uptown on Columbus Ave: A sweet-voiced old woman wrapped in a shawl, sorrowfully affronted by her tumor-glutted face. One or two sporadic loners drifting by with unidentifiable animals in small, cloaked carriers. A spry old coot in Civil War garb (undoubtedly his accustomed togs) selling antique comics. When I asked if he had the Classics Illustrated Moby-Dick, he fervently flipped through two or three racks and admitted he was out; but wasn’t the movie great?
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Some vendors slept over paltry wares, others scooted about in self-important zeal. I was the brunt of one used-book seller’s irascibility when I thoughtlessly breached a barricade of cartons for a better look at a remotely-placed biography of Lytton Strachey. The public reprimand prompted my hasty exit from the rank grotto (on weekdays, a cafeteria) and outside, to see the schoolyard vendors’ offerings. Whether in daylight or dim fluorescence, buyers and sellers had a shut-in pallor. I probably did as well.
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Onward to Hell’s Kitchen; that market sprawls listlessly along 39th St. between 9th and 10th Aves. It begins at an ominous disused bus ramp, at the edge of Port Authority. The neighborhood is so desolate, it seems to be at the end of the world at the end of time.
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In front of a pile of condemned buildings was a chain-link fence, freshly painted a tropical aqua, incongruous in such a benighted realm. Market pickings were slim. I was curious about a thickish wooden box with removable sides held together by green-oxidized hooks. At the bottom was a square of raised designs, like a printing block. Might be good to put a painting in, I mused, found the stall-keeper (young, bearded, emaciated), and asked what the object was and how much did he want. He drawled: “Oh that’s a butter mold,” and hastily added, “But you could just as well use it for maple syrup.” Not for $35, thanks.
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I did find three promising wee wood frames, which for $12 the overburdened seller was willing to part with. (Upon dismembering the inexplicable pictures at home, I discovered in one a sort of ambiguous love note addressed to “Moss,” which ended demurely with an admonishing quote from Luke.)
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Back-packing my frame purchases, I went from the southwest edge of Port Authority to the brink of the Lincoln Tunnel; then south to 25th Street on 9th Ave. and east to 6th, still at the end of the world at the end of time.
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A man passed carrying a heavy old beat-up picture frame. He must have picked up that I was in a “frame” frame of mind, for in mid-stride he called, “Want it? I was just taking it to the trash.” Reflexively, but already dubiously, I put it under my arm. Entering the garage-turned-jumble-sale I leaned over a moldering table as if to examine some forlorn knickknack and surreptitiously propped the clunky frame against the table leg. I imagined someone later asking the bemused vendor for the price.
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The people I encountered may have appeared odd, but the merchandise, as I’ve said, was generally not. That day I sifted through countless collections of dispirited detritus: packs of old thumb tacks (some missing from the cards leaving rusty holes); an unfeasible snarl of embroidery floss; a basket of blackened keys; piteous figurines. I was tempted by nothing but an Australian postage stamp, picturing a whale under glass in a tiny soldered frame. But not for $25.
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Flea-marketing was better twelve years ago, when I made the rounds as I began my Magic Flute series. Wondering how to make 18th-century opera sets, I emerged from the subway and saw a big red sign: MAGIC. I thought, OK, Magic, where’s Flute? On the heels of that thought I spied a wooden flute, just like Tamino’s oak one. OK, I thought, Magic and Flute: how to make operatic prosceniums? In seconds I found some fancy-curly-carved picture frames pleading to be painted silver and glued around the stages. I was on a roll, and it didn’t hurt to be standing in the shadow of the Masonic Lodge, across the street from the Mozart Café.
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On this far less fruitful flea-market venture (I never did find a bark or a brig), I walked a lot from place to place. When I did use the subway, I read bits from “Benito Cereno,” perfect in its utter strangeness for the incalculable strangeness of the day.

Posted by Jane on February 25, 2008 1:57 PM

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