The glass menagerie man.

Over the many years I've visited the Tuesday/Friday crafts market on Nahalat Binyamin, the novelty of a street filled with peddlers lined up on each side, bustling with people has worn off. Now, I get pleasure from the lack of novelty, from recognizing vendors I saw four years ago, and before that, six years ago. My taste in different things guides me—I check out some jewelry on a stand, then look up at the vendor at last to ask how much something is, and suddenly I recognize the face. I immediately smile because there is something almost magical about having a conversation with someone who doesn't recognize me. I feel this odd sense of complicity, almost, like I have secret superpowers and can infiltrate a crowd unrecognized.

There is one exception: the glass menagerie man. Even though I visit him every time I'm in Israel, I don't think I've ever spoken to him. I like watching him and what I think are two beautiful hands from a distance (this is where my super zoom lens comes in handy) as he turns flat chips that look like plastic first into colorful globs, then into shapes that resemble tiny faces or wings or flappy ears.

He doesn't look like he's aged a bit over the years. I'm convinced that if anyone has secret superpowers, it's the glass menagerie man.


The making of a swan:










…and an attentive puppy.


The menagerie.


Having fun getting lost in the streets surrounding Nahalat Binyamin.