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Rating: The air is fresh even if it appears sterile. It seems unwilling to free itself from an imaginary shell. It does not want to blow, to circulate among the souls of this separate world. It is unclear whether the temperature is bearable or not. Some have jackets, others have rolled-up shirt sleeves, some walk without socks.
Everything here has a life, perhaps rubbery due to the outlines. Sharp markings as if wanting to escape the canvas to invade any space. The problem is that a Sicilian popular market cannot invade any space other than its own. That battlefield made of dialectal shouts, trumpet calls animated by the same timbre only to transform into anonymous sonatas within household walls. A war made of voices, where one fights with cunning and quality. It is difficult to come out unharmed from the assaults of those sounds, just as it is wonderful to be drenched in the power of that music.
A work of art that does not change protagonists, does not have a backdrop for any preparation. There are no lights except natural sunlight and no director exists. In Sicily, in Palermo, in the morning, on land mingled with blood, sugar, and sun-kissed vitamins, improvising happens. And never is a line forgotten nor a note missed. A perfect orchestra of formidable artists living with their instruments. Everyone ready, in place, some with the eggs, some with the swordfish, some with fennel, lemons, octopus, apples, cheese. Waiting for people to start conducting.
Just one foot stepping on that ground and everything takes shape. A paradoxical, strange still life that is ever in motion. The eggs shiny as stones shaped by fresh water, the vegetables perpetually vigorous, the mechanical yet precise movements of those crafting the quartered ox. The passerby's eye more drawn to the woman than the rest. Sex freeze-dried among the olives obscured by the worn glass jars, among the walnuts darkened by the coarse hemp sacks. Those forms will certainly be there, even if back-turned and veiled in innocent silks. There will be welcoming breasts even if covered by heavy brown hair. The mission is to tread that path between the musicians' instruments, carefully counting steps to avoid oily paper and crate fragments. To capture an ephemeral fragrance that barely reacts to the natural strength of the surrounding odors.
The fresh guts of fish still moist, the lively armor of shrimp moving slowly, the voracious tingle of greasy cheeses. And the permanent gleam of artificial stars, the firepower of apples and stigghiole, and the ocular audience of breams. Or of scorpion fish. The disturbed thoughts of the mourning woman and the hopeful gaze of the musician with the sword. Quick yet animated brushstrokes, dead yet lively, deep yet bright.
What a wonderful confusion, the Vucciria.
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