The imposing sobriety of the building hides a profusion of tones, shapes and noises. The Market is a timeless creature, an organism pliable to the desires of each germination, ready to respond promptly to new challenges. In the central square, amidst the bluster of outdated voices, the republic of aromas proclaims its independence through the copious palette of nature, conquering the lenses of those who visit, giving the little orchids and passion fruit the reverent satisfaction that distinguishes the verticality of a hundred and one boundaries in the skirt of the flower sellers.
In the other square, the loa of the men of the sea, thrown from corner to corner like a cannonball in a galleon war. It is a riot without filters, levelled in the blood tones of the cold stone, amid the thunderous echoes of a new price for the tuna that has just arrived. In this palate house, the senses do not dry up in the brevity of the photograph taken or the purchase made – they go further and travel through the Indies of yore, receiving the faith in a creed that lives on improbable unions, swearing greatness, as faithful keepers of the secret of anise. On the surface, swaying in the waves of sweetness, the memory of the night that remains to be fulfilled.