Scatterbrainy

The ginkgo tree has basically looked the same for 270 million years. Take a moment to think about that. That's before mammals even existed, which makes it a living fossil. There's a street in Brussels lined by ginkgos. It happens to be the street where the Belgian architectur Victor Horta's former house is located. It's facade is majestic and characteristically art nouveau. I passed by yesterday, as I have many times, and I thought it's obvious that such a beautiful building should be surrounded by the noblest of trees, reminding us of our place as newborns in the long arch of history. Serendipitiously, ginkgo is a common motif in 20th century art noveau.

 

My love affair with the ginkgo did not start with its history. Instead it was an infatuation with the leaves themselves; their shape such an unlikely one, as if they were made more for the arts than for nature. Tiny green fans refreshing the trunk and branches, shaking densely in the breeze like bright green pom-poms. And in the fall they turn a saffron yellow so intense you're could be forgiven for forgetting they used to be green.

 

I spent a few days in Washington D.C for a course last year. Every morning I'd walk from one side of Dupont Circle to another, and I stumbled upon this lovely DC street where the ginkgos had just started to shed their leaves. Every morning I would pick up a few yellow ones and slide them into a book, or two, that I was carrying. As I flew back across the Atlantic after a month in the US, those saffron leaves, neatly tucked in between pages of text, came with me. Every now and then, I slip one of the dried fan-shaped talismans into a book I will one day open and be delighted all over again.

 

 

Maybe it's the way it seems to go so counter to the society in which we exist, where everything is available to us, and so readily custom made. Maybe that's why nothing appears more precious to me than a really unexpected, quirky or random find at a flea market. There's also the complex essence of the discovery; it's not really an achievement, these treasures are purely luck, coincidences or the universe's winking at you, and yet you feel like you've earned it. You've trawled through all the flea markets just to get to this one handstuffed doll from Mali, or that weird (and certainly over-priced) frame filled with packages of various shades of orange sewing thread. You are both the luckiest one upon whom the sun shines, and the most ardent treasure hunter. 

 

I got my hands on a real gem this weekend. It caught my eye lying there among swaths of kitschy paraphernalia on a blanket spread out on the grounds of a monastery garden. Once every year this beautiful and formerly sacred place turns into a bustling flea market, with the 12th century monastery looking down fondly at the crowds bartering, chasing precious things like the Bernadine novices once used to search for God. Hunting for delight is a centuries-old pastime.

 

It was pencil box filled to the brim with what looked like randomely strung about pens and drawing tools. The inside of the box was covered in bright green felt, the color of pool tables everywhere. I asked the lady manning the stall 'How much for this, please?' and she eyed me, a little perplexed. 'What, the whole thing, pens and all?' she asked. 'Oh, I don't know about that', and she hastened to count the contents. I am sure she had a system, but I was but one of her many potential customers and she couldn't waste too mcuh time on me- who knew if I was even serious?- so she blurted out '15 euro!'. 

 

I hesitated for a second, I hadn't really inspected the contents myself. I just loved the idea of taking home this box full of things that someone else once thought belonged together. I once found a worn, wooden sewing box with all the stuff still inside, threads, needles - even a pair of miniature scissors. I don't even sew, but it was a real joy to make mine. 

 

So, I nodded happily to this Belgian lady and said I'd take it. A man to my side who had been observing the transaction exclaimed 'C'est une bonne affaire, ca!' and shook his head in disbelief. And that, right there, the perfect illustration of the double delight of a real flea market treasure: an absolutely haphazardly but masterfully executed deal.