The markets are an endless source of wonder. And everything in such improbable abundance. I've witnessed the repetitive slaughter of chickens, grabbed squawking from their cage and swung by their feet to receive a knife at the throat. But most of all it's the fish, at every stage, from boat to table that I'm drawn to.
I don't and won't eat chicken. But by the time I reach the fish market the death agonies are over (crabs and shellfish apart,) though they remain visible in their anguished expressions on the slabs. But by the time they are on the plate, all this has been removed by filleting or decapitation.
In 1937, a year into the Spanish Civil War, Picasso painted Mort de Trois Pêches. In this picture colourful little fishes with almost human faces await their fate. A heavy black cast iron skillet, symbolising Fascism, hovers over them. Fried Fish, indeed.
I have taken the paints to the beach, and the camera to the markets and dinner table with all this in mind...
I don't and won't eat chicken. But by the time I reach the fish market the death agonies are over (crabs and shellfish apart,) though they remain visible in their anguished expressions on the slabs. But by the time they are on the plate, all this has been removed by filleting or decapitation.
In 1937, a year into the Spanish Civil War, Picasso painted Mort de Trois Pêches. In this picture colourful little fishes with almost human faces await their fate. A heavy black cast iron skillet, symbolising Fascism, hovers over them. Fried Fish, indeed.
I have taken the paints to the beach, and the camera to the markets and dinner table with all this in mind...
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