The flea market in Rome reflects the city itself: The predictable chaos; entangled paths that seem to function somehow; distinguished beauty under diverse layers; people who walk slowly while smoking and shoving and others who make Italy the object of fantasies.
Rome had bewitched me when I moved there in my 20’s and somewhat haunted me for years after I moved back to the United States.
After years away, I returned to the city this past Thanksgiving. I could not have been happier to learn that -- from my perspective -- not much had changed.
I especially noticed this stasis in my beloved Roman market Porta Portese where I had religiously ventured to every Sunday in my Italian days. I could find my stone dealer hawking hanks of semi-precious stones next to the cheese vender stall that buttresses the random electronics table.
Although Rome seems to defy change -- as if the graffitied walls and the Tiber push back at it -- I noticed that my adult American perspective had shifted. I used to pour over tables with a dreamy ambiguousness, wondering what I was looking for. (I will be honest; I have spent years like this, both in markets and in life).
I didn’t know it then, but I would use the comfort and inspiration I found in these markets to become a jewelry designer.
So, I am still (strangely) drawn to piles of objects with past lives. The difference, now, is purpose and knowledge, something I had never had patience for.
During this last jaunt I discovered lace that will now translate into pendants and earrings, cuffs and rings. I dug into a haggard box to unearth rusty keys that will fall well on the body and work with stones.
And I make these pieces, I will think about the place I loved and left and idealized and got lost in and grew out of -- without knowing it.
