Vogue Italiaのインスタグラム(vogueitalia) - 1月17日 21時26分

Amidst the old snapshots sold in flea markets, one may discover true little gems. Telling stories of lives, and clothes, apparently anonymous. Yet unexpectedly artistic.
“The opening section of Susan Sontag’s 1992 novel, “The Volcano Lover”, finds its author hesitating, at once skeptical and expectant, at the entrance to an outdoor flea market in Manhattan. “Why enter?” she asks herself. “Is there already enough? I could find out it’s not here. Whatever it is, often I am not sure. I could put it back down on the table. Desire leads me.... I go in.” Sontag calls the flea market “a degraded experience of pure possibility”–one she finds she cannot resist. I know exactly what she means. When New York’s Chelsea flea market–very likely the same one Sontag haunted in the ’90s–reopened mid-pandemic last September, it wasn’t just one more step in the city’s gradual revival after months of anxious lockdown. It was the return of possibility, pure and otherwise. Aside from its (questionable) bargains, unpredictability is the flea market’s greatest attraction; you never know what might turn up: a stack of vintage Esquires one week, a table of butter-yellow California pottery the next. But as long as there’s someone with a box of old photos, I’m happy. My favorite dealer always has a jumbled assortment of postcards, cabinet cards, cartes de visite, party snaps, class pictures, Polaroids, and stereo views dating from the turn-of-the-century to summer 1988. Nothing costs much more than a dollar, so I never leave his tables empty-handed.” Read the full text by #VinceAletti at the link in bio.

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