French "Brocantes" - Objects changing hands.

Today is a particluar kind of Sunday. It's flea market day. Not any one in particular, just one close to us. In fact there is very possibly one taking place every day of the year in France. The French "brocante". The word itself is pretty old. It comes from the 15th century verb "brocanter" meaning to barter or trade in small goods. It's roots are a bit more practical than poetic.

The things for sale, were never supposed to be rare or carry any kind of prestige. It was all about "circulation" - objects moving from one life, to be re-loved in another. It's a worthy distinction. Brocantes are not antiques fairs, neither curated nor particularly elevated. They are, by nature, resolutely ordinary events, they are the purveyors of the in-between things. Items that are no longer needed by me, but more than a little sought after, by you. That's the charm.

Wooden chopping boards with the patina of Ernest Hemmingway's face. Mismatched cutlery and drawers of silver buttons. Leather with softened edges, elegant framed prints, that once hung in hallways. Postcards, boxes, brass whistles and tarnished toast racks.

I know...we all wage a constant battle with ourselves over spending money on things we don't need. The accumulation of "stuff". It fills many of us with a deep unease. After all we are trying on some level to own less and give away more. To simplify - and - in the buzziest of buzzwords - de-clutter.

My suggestion to you, is that the brocante is not out to celebrate accumulation for its own sake. They exist perhaps to remind us that some objects are not clutter, they are "carriers". Of memory, utility and continuity. I propose we might choose to think of it this way - these shiny preciounesses are not hoarded, they are released. Passed on and given a new chapter in their ultra-compelling stories. Maybe we look at the treaures we pick up in French flea markets, as objects we "curate" - and not own. We are the babysitters. The docents. I can tell you so much more about my envelope of 24 "Banque de France"-stamped, silver plate tunic buttons, than I can about the entire rest of my living room. I am invested. I did the research and I thouroughly enjoyed it. I do not know - nor do I care about - the provenance of my sofa.

For visitors and regulars like Vanessa and me, this may be part of the appeal. In a world increasingly governed by algorithms and sameness, brocantes offer something unscripted. No 4.6/5.0 user reviews. Nothing is trending. There is only the chancey hope that you find something beatiful and well-loved. Oh.. and enjoy a half-decent haggle, the odd "Qu'est-que-c'est?" and a good ol' fashioned wander around.

What French brocantes really offer, is not a gift of permission around acquiring more trinkets for the junk drawer, but a unique opportunity to relate differently - to objects, to time, to a different metric of human value. Beauty and usefulness can be mutually exclusive. That is why these flea markets endure, and we keep coming back. Not perhaps as a "shopping experience" but a resistance to shopping experiences. A refusal to adopt the belief that a thing has worth, just because you saw it on social media. Some things are just waiting to be noticed.

Go on... have a rummage.