{"id":31814,"title":"Market Value","description":"Photography Project by Matteo Delred. \u2018Market Value\u2019. Local markets are still standing tall, as a central pillar of some communities, but their foundations are diminishing under the weight of convenience. A growing trend towards the everyday consumption of everything at once. Marketed as cheap and fast, or as the fuel for the capitalist fire sale, where the local market's value is flattened under the momentum of a globalised monolith.","content":"

Slippery like a fish<\/p>

slipping between your fingers<\/p>

while you pretend<\/p>

you meant to let it go.<\/p>

Everyone wants to catch it,<\/p>

own it,<\/p>

define it.<\/p>

But it won\u2019t sit still.<\/p>

Market value is a shape-shifter,<\/p>

changing its face<\/p>

depending on who\u2019s squinting<\/p>

at the signage and why.<\/p>

Sometimes it\u2019s a cold number,<\/p>

a hard edge.<\/p>

Other times it\u2019s a story,<\/p>

between stalls, intergenerational,<\/p>

passed down like recipes,<\/p>

like warnings.<\/p>

It\u2019s trust,<\/p>

or maybe it\u2019s just a feeling,<\/p>

the one you get<\/p>

when someone gives you<\/p>

the right change<\/p>

without needing to look.<\/p>

In the market proper,<\/p>

the one with onions<\/p>

I need to cry,<\/p>

gossip with the egg ladies,<\/p>

crumpled fivers,<\/p>

it\u2019s mutual recognition.<\/p>

A nod.<\/p>

The sly grin<\/p>

of a woman<\/p>

who saves the best tomatoes<\/p>

for you, at home you\u2019ll add salt, garlic, olive oil,<\/p>

all because she remembers your face.<\/p>

The marketplace,<\/p>

once a tangle of bodies,<\/p>

smells,<\/p>

stubborn personalities,<\/p>

is now made smooth and sterile,<\/p>

like a hotel lobby<\/p>

in a city<\/p>

you\u2019ll never visit again.<\/p>

We\u2019re tired,<\/p>

busy,<\/p>

burdened.<\/p>

Promised more time to live,<\/p>

but there\u2019s a cost.<\/p>

Not the one on the receipt.<\/p>

The other one.<\/p>

The one you can\u2019t name,<\/p>

but it\u2019s a feeling,<\/p>

until after it\u2019s gone.<\/p>

The tactile thing.<\/p>

The real thing.<\/p>

The weight of something<\/p>

in your hands.<\/p>

Look away too long<\/p>

and these places vanish,<\/p>

quietly,<\/p>

like a sigh.<\/p>

Eroded by waves of disinterest,<\/p>

by apathy,<\/p>

by the small, deadly phrase:<\/p>

it\u2019s just easier online.<\/p>

Human contact<\/p>

replaced by tracking numbers.<\/p>

A whole way of life,<\/p>

intimate,<\/p>

particular,<\/p>

reduced to a dropdown menu.<\/p>

Still,<\/p>

there\u2019s resistance.<\/p>

The markets haven\u2019t all been replaced,<\/p>

some have simply changed.<\/p>

Gone rogue,<\/p>

scrappy, radical.<\/p>

They talk sustainability now,<\/p>

provenance, and their crooked signage.<\/p>

They don\u2019t want to be perfect.<\/p>

They want to be themselves.<\/p>

These aren\u2019t transactions,<\/p>

they\u2019re tiny rebellions,<\/p>

micro-movements,<\/p>

proof<\/p>

that not all of us<\/p>

are ready to trade complexity<\/p>

for convenience,<\/p>

and this isn\u2019t just economics.<\/p>

It\u2019s memory.<\/p>

Identity.<\/p>

Belonging to the community.<\/p>

Because what we\u2019re mourning<\/p>

isn\u2019t the Saturday market alone,<\/p>

it\u2019s the slow, quiet erosion<\/p>

of this community.<\/p>

The butcher\u2019s wink,<\/p>

because you told him<\/p>

your partner is a vegetarian,<\/p>

and he thinks he\u2019s complicit<\/p>

in every exchange.<\/p>

The buy button<\/p>

has no inside jokes,<\/p>

it\u2019s just feeding the machine,<\/p>

that never gets full.<\/p>

Or, we can go outside,<\/p>

walk to the market,<\/p>

speak to someone,<\/p>

ask a question,<\/p>

listen to a story,<\/p>

be part of something,<\/p>

something slower,<\/p>

messier, because value,<\/p>

real value,<\/p>

was never just in the thing.<\/p>

It was in how it got to you,<\/p>

in who<\/p>

gave it to you.<\/p>

We remember,<\/p>

if we let ourselves,<\/p>

and the market<\/p>

remembers us too,<\/p>

and it\u2019s still there,<\/p>

waiting for us,<\/p>

but which one of us<\/p>

will be the ghosts.<\/p>

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