A Marketplace in Cannes

Pending publication

In Cannes, the limitations of the camera become apparent quite quickly. How could a snap shot of yellow petals in sizzling oil, convey the peppery scent of the flowers or the honey milk smell of the fromagerie pitched up next door? Neither could a still image confer the bustling shoulder-to-shoulder slalom of bronzed skin, linen skirts and jostling carts. The ferrying of peaches, rabbit and wet fish from stall to stall. No, photographs won’t do. 

Would audio be enough, perhaps, to convey the bounce and tinkle of accordion keys that play you under the pink arches toward a wall of French barter and unrestraint; the calling to one another under the market canopy? Alas, probably not. How could it, for instance, capture the thread and needle punching of the coastal train from Cap d’ail? The whooshing encasement in cliff face giving way to the plunges of the carriage into the blues, pinks and greens of the côte d’azur? The feeling of being exposed to light for the first time as if the world was being developed right in front of your eyes. 

Sitting here in the shade by the market’s edge, coffee and notepad before me, it seems that only writing will do the job.