More Market Memories

I can’t find my Voice of the Hill article about Eastern Market itself. I thought I remembered the circumstances surrounding the time that I wrote the piece—where I was living, who I was dating—but it’s not showing up in those months.

Did I dream it? Good lord, the memories do grow murky with time.

Anyhow, I did find a piece I wrote during the holidays about shopping at the outdoor market. It was fun to do.

Yeah--I didn’t actually buy any of the things I said I bought. So, right--as my parents read this and wonder about what happened to their work of art... I didn't, did I? I know I didn't get the lantern slide for my brother. But, artistic licence, right?

Odd to me how trippingly off the tongue I am able to talk about “my boyfriend”. Jarring considering the who, the what, the when, and the what has happened since.

I sound much less jaded, I think. I sound optimistic and hopeful, don’t I? I sound young. I sound almost... bubbly.

I do sound kind of dorky.

At least that hasn't changed.

That’s gotta be the goal of the near future. Find the optimism, right?

A Day At The Market
by City Mouse
December 2002

When I was ten, I started my Christmas shopping in August. Come December, I had set up a gift-wrapping station for my entire family, and would craft elaborate ribbon sculptures for shiny packages. I baked three varieties of Christmas cookies, and a batch of Hamentashen (a tribute to my father’s Russian Jewish roots). My family wondered where I had come from.

But things changed soon enough. By the time I hit my early 20s I was as jaded about the holidays as any member of my generation. So last year, I decided that I simply would not do
it. I had just made a “quality of life” move from New York to DC. Washington meant happiness, but it also meant an empty pocketbook.

So come holiday time, I wrote notes to everyone explaining that I did not feel right celebrating a season that I no longer believed in. But the week before Christmas I chickened out. So I out headed to that great vortex of modern civilization, the mall. I have no recollection of what I bought anyone, but I remember that I wrapped them on Christmas morning. Several hours and several hundred dollars of credit card debt later, I was resolved. Never again.

This year, I head instead to the Sunday Market Flea at Eastern Market. I live on the Hill, so a trip to the market means little more than rolling out of bed around 11 a.m., slipping on glasses and sneakers, and trekking over to 7th Street.

First on my list: Mom. She is famously easy to buy for, because she is really, truly happy with anything that reminds her of her kids. My mother took up photography around the time my brother and I left for college. She loves purchasing photos almost as much as she likes taking them. I journey over to the first photographer’s booth I see, Troy Plair Photography. Much of Troy’s work is black and white and focuses on his “found art philosophy.” It is evocative and interesting, but not quite right for my mother. I select a print instead for my best friend--a photo that is simple enough to avoid sentimentality, but clever enough to pass New York standards.

Next up is the North building, to seek out an artist I had seen there earlier in the year. Sure enough, Victor Kinza had a booth adjacent to the entrance. Victor specializes in a Russian style of printmaking called “Lubok,” an age-old method of engraving that employs carving, printing, and painting—all done by hand. His work resembles that of Marc Chagall--a favorite artist of both of my parents. I love what I see, and after much time poring over the work, I decide on a print called “Moon.” They will love it.

Grandma’s next. I head to another of the several photographers’ booths that pepper the Hines Jr. High schoolyard. Grandma is pretty traditional in her tastes. John De Fabbio’s display of photos featuring DC’s monuments manages to twist the traditional just enough to provide a fresh perspective on the Washington landscape, but not enough to forsake a sense of reverence. I choose a photo of the Washington monument covered in construction scaffolding for Grams.

Now for the tough ones — my boyfriend and my brother. Both of them have very definite tastes, and neither really needs anything. My brother seems a perfect candidate for one of Tom Rall’s Lantern Slides, preferably a vintage shot of the American West, where my Yankee brother has spent a good amount of time and many rolls of film. He is also a budding photographer, so the historical relevance of the slides will not be lost on him.

As for the boyfriend, I wander over to the CD booth on a whim. The selection is impressive, but trying to pick out a CD for the boy is just short of absurd. He is incredibly specific in his music tastes, which indeed runs the gamut but seem to be understood only by him. I look through the boxes and am tempted by the selection of world music. This may in fact be a whole new genre for him—so I pick up one CD of Spanish Boleros, one Zydeco disc, a selection of Celtic music and two Bolivian/Andian CD’s. Now if only we knew how to dance. I leave the market and take some mental notes of additional unique ideas, especially for those hardto- buy-for people like aunts and co-workers and exroommates.

My picks for “Gifts for People Who Seem to Have Everything”:
BoxBoys’ Demented Decoupage Boxes. Especially good for younger sisters and cousins. The boxes are small and whimsical, decorated with everything from the cast of “Friends” to quirky mermaid images. They are perfect for holding jewelry, spare change, and anything else small and precious.

Light Switch Covers. Covered with images from the annals of black history, these make for a unique gift idea. And if a picture of Muhammad Ali or Malcolm X are not your thing, he has a good selection bearing replications of well-known paintings and other more symbolic images.

Shea Butter. With names like “passion,” “sexy” and “heavenly,” these may not be quite right for grandma, but they make a heck of a gift for anyone else. I tried the Shea butter on my hand. It melts smoothly and evenly into the skin, and smells and feels wonderful. The Epicurean Soap Company that makes it also sells “bath balls” (bath salts), massage oils and natural scented soaps.

African Masks. Not a small investment, but for the right person, a worthwhile one. The masks come from seven different African nations. The man selling them rattles off the names and I catch Mali, Guinea, Nigeria, and Cameroon. Sure to be a one of a kind gift.

Geeda’s Hand Poured Candles. The colors are rich, and the craftsmanship is apparent. I overhear the vendor talking about pouring the candles over the stove in her kitchen. Now that’s impressive!

Time with a Psychic. She sits at a table in the North building of the Market. And honestly—who hasn’t wanted to try this sometime?

The amazing thing about the Sunday Market is that it’s never the same place twice. People know about what they are selling and will gladly tell you about it. So ask, and browse, and buy. You never know which dealers will be there next week!