There’s a special kind of magic in a weekend morning, when the city is still stretching lazily, and you’re already walking toward wonder at the flea market. It doesn’t matter where it is: on the outskirts of Berlin, in the heart of Haifa, or in the yard of an abandoned tram depot. What matters is the atmosphere; everything here breathes with time.
For a collage artist, it’s not just a market. It’s a treasure trove. Tables piled with old postcards, faded photographs, curious toys, and keys to lost doors. And the assemblages? They’re already laid out: not in galleries, but right here, on every second stall. Sometimes by accident, sometimes with love, but always full of potential.
All it takes is to pick up an object, and it begins to speak. Whispering its story, stirring up images, asking to be continued. Here’s a letter written in careful handwriting forty years ago. And there is a photograph of a stranger with such an expression that you immediately want to weave her into a narrative. So you keep walking, among the voices. Many don’t hear them, but you’re one of those who know how to listen.
Old things are not useless. They’re just waiting for a new gaze. Just like us, they still have everything ahead of them.