The Elephant That Stood On A Flea

On Friday, Oct 15, at the Puces de Paris Saint Ouen, or the Clignancourt Flea Market as it is sometimes known, any hardened drinkers in or around the Paul Bert and Serpette Markets might have had a Hollywood movie moment, pouring their bottles of meths down the drain after watching one huge elephant with tusks and two surly looking camels stroll casually past them (part of the celebrations for the start of the presentation ‘l’Animal dans l’Art’). But, to be honest, most of the hardened drinkers in the area were probably party to the whole thing anyway—party to the party, as it were—and would almost certainly have been guzzling champagne too tasty and too expensive to be in any real danger of being poured down a drain, no matter what surprises sprang up—including the elephant and two camels—or even a gleeful male dealer chasing a burly transporter around the stalls, begging for a kiss. International politics and the resulting slowing down of business over the last few months has done nothing to crush the spirits of the wheelers and dealers of the Puces de Saint Ouen, and many of them seemed far more interested in letting it all hang out than in tightening their belts on Friday night. Located at the extreme North of the eighteenth arrondissement in Saint Ouen, sixteen highly commercialised markets are spread out between Porte de Clignancourt and Porte Montmartre, although the metro Clignancourt on line 4 is the best way in, despite the walk down from the metro, under the périphérique, past the sprawl of cheap markets on the outskirts, selling shoes, leather jackets, second-hand clothes, bits ‘n’ bats, until you turn left on the rue de Rosiers and into the action. Best advice: don’t expect too many bargains; do expect to be transfixed. On the way to Paul Bert and Serpette, you will pass markets such as Vernaison, the oldest of the bunch, a huge, winding place filled with cool, trendy junk, like old Beatles badges, sixties TV figure action dolls, toys, record-players, jewellery, glass-ware, games, old and new furniture; and posher markets like Malassis and the youngest, Dauphine. These latter markets are luxurious and filled with expensive items. The term flea-market has been laughable here for a long time now. The inside of the Serpette market itself, linked to the Paul Bert market, is a wonderland of luxury ‘stalls’ that would probably put Bin Laden’s cave to shame; the dealers themselves can be an eccentric bunch, but they are always helpful and usually in good spirits, sitting in small groups outside the stalls, eating snacks or playing cards, laughing or arguing amongst themselves, staring dreamily at objects bought on other stalls being wheeled past them by transporters. Sometimes just staring dreamily at the transporters. On the harsh Saturday morning after the heady Friday night before, I was surprised by how many of the dealers turned up to open their stalls. In the past, I had made the mistake of turning up early on Sunday and Monday mornings only to find the place deserted. Officially open from Saturday morning to Monday evening, Sunday morning is not a good time for dealers; nor is Monday morning if the weather isn’t seductive enough to drag them out of bed. You won’t get beaten to the punch if you turn up around 11am on Sundays or around noon on Mondays. But not only were the dealers present at 9.00am on the dot on Saturday morning, almost every stall in Paul Bert and Serpette had made an effort to be part of the presentation; and not only that, but as the morning progressed I was surprised to see that many people were buying. One man, an English chap who told me he owned a shop in London, bought a stuffed cat that was standing bolt upright on its hind legs, with a vicious expression on its face. He seemed extremely pleased with the purchase, but admitted that he had been at the party the night before and was in a “strange mood”. I asked him what mood he thought the cat was in. But the strange mood was catching, probably the result of all that good champagne still flowing around inside all those bad heads. I saw two American women who had bought several items stop a British transporter, busy pushing several huge chunks of marble on a trolley, and ask him for a quote. He beamed at them and declared: “‘I can resist anything except temptation…’ Oscar Wilde.” He then lifted the handles of his trolley and continued on his way. The two women gasped in surprise, then followed after him, laughing and shouting. Not to be outdone by the British, an American dealer bought a stuffed fox, which, like the cat, stood bolt upright, holding a cane in one hand and an apple in the other. Somebody else bought a turtle shell, the inside of which contained the spine of the creature, along with an awkward new addition: a light-fixture. Another stall had the skulls of various animals, along with a brochure displaying all the other dead animals at the seller’s disposal. A baby crocodile, stuffed but still hungry, showed its teeth as I passed one stall, whilst another (a magnificent piece of work), showed a sculpture of an elephant fighting two tigers. From creatures made from ceramic to little elephants bound in leather; from paintings of mothers and children bathing cats, dating from the eighteenth century, to desks and chairs covered in hides with large antlers poking out uncomfortably from them, I personally preferred the paintings and sculptures, although these too could be a little odd. One carving of a bear showed it cradling an infant bear and feeding it bottled milk. But then why expect the ordinary here? To be honest, when I heard about the presentation, I had figured the whole thing would be one large, cheap gimmick, but I was forced to admit that the effort made by those involved was certainly real; and that the response from buyers was excellent. ‘l’Animal dans l’Art,’ presentation, like the Puces de Paris Saint Ouen themselves, is something I would recommend to those who want to come and see, rather than to those who want to come and buy. The chances of getting real bargains here are few and far between, but to miss out on the experience is to miss out on an important part of Paris itself, in that (and in…