Central Asia. The marketplace in Samarkand. Noon. Spices, meat, silk. He has a three-hour break and is rabidly snapping pictures of everything that happens to catch his eye. Flies, shouts, scents. Kids are running through the dust, rolling with laughter. Their mothers are watching from up above—from the stall piled with apples, snickering into their hands. He is trying to gather all of this into the shot—that whole 20^th century, which has not yet set in, the high cupolas of the madrassas, the domes of the mosques, mountains of pomegranates big as suns, the crooked streets and the dogs happily wagging their tails. His personal speed is 400 shots per hour. Three hours of euphoria. Three hours of time travel. Then his battery dies and he lowers the camera. He is off the clock. He takes out his phone and tries to find coverage.

The old woman selling bread two yards away from him is watching him carefully. She is in at least ten shots, he’s sure of it.

“Where are you from?” The woman asks.

“Very far away,” he says, without looking at her, still holding the phone to his ear.

“How far away?” She asks—you know old people, they love details—who, how, why…

“Two thousand five-hundred miles,” he says, exact in everything as always.  

“Who are you calling?” The old woman presses on.

“Home.”

“Why?”

“To see how the kids are,” he answers her patiently.

“How many kids do you have?”

“Three.”

“So why are you wasting your money?” The old woman laughs. “If something was wrong, you’d know. You can sense those things.”

He stays like that for some time, loitering at the beginning of the 20^th century—with his phone in his hand, his camera over his shoulder, kids are running around him, the muezzin is singing, and the dogs are wagging their tails. There is no coverage, and that’s that. 

It all happens in seconds. She is just coming out of the museum, her head spinning after having spent an hour and a half enjoying sculptures and pictures from the Peggy Guggenheim collection, works by Kandinsky, Picasso, Dali and Magritte are still dancing before her eyes. Once outside, the first thing she does is pull a warmer jacket out of her backpack because it is cool. Then she leans against a railing and tries to bring some order to her bag—to that chaos of lipstick, sunglasses, documents, cash, a camera, leaflets, cards, and free handouts from cafés, hotels, and palaces.

At this moment she realizes that an improvised exhibition is lying at her feet—someone has arrayed some fifteen pictures on A4 paper right on the ground, some are even propped against the museum’s railing. She is into art, so she cranes her neck to see what's going on down there. The next moment she pulls back, however, realizing that she herself has become an object of attention—a man lounging against the nearest railing quickly comes over to her and in a hushed tone offers her a deal.

            “Only ten euro,” he says.

            “Pardon?” she asks, uncertain whether she has heard him right.  Did he say ten? Or fifteen? Or fifty? Or something else....

Meanwhile she keeps rummaging awkwardly in her backpack, trying to cram everything inside. The idea of bringing order has been abandoned.

            “Would you like to buy a painting?” The man says, with a sweeping gesture towards the exposition on the ground.

She finds this gesture quite impressive. The man must have seen it in a gallery, he must have copied it from a famous curator. She is still lingering, shifting her weight from foot to foot, while the man is also unsure about how things might develop—has he won her over to his cause or just the opposite?

            “Only ten euro each. Only ten,” he repeats. “You like art, don't you?” he says with a smile, letting her know that he has seen her coming out of the museum.

At first she doesn't know how to respond—perhaps it’s better to back off and move away? But still, it would be awkward to slink off like that, as if she hasn’t seen or heard him. Besides, curiosity gnaws at her again and she bends down to look at the pictures.

So what have we got here? Sketches. Color landscapes of Venice in pastels, pencil and India ink. Sunset over the Piazza San Marco, boats sailing down the Canale Grande, bridges and gondoliers, churches, belfries and pigeons, more churches, more bridges, more gondoliers. The kind of paintings that will never find their way into the Guggenheim museum. Yet some people hang them in their homes, and years later they lovingly recall their trips to those places, saying excitedly “Do you remember?...” It takes her thirty seconds to examine the pictures.

Then she glances up at the street artist—the man looks desperate, yet at the same time timid and uneasy. She cannot tell his age, he might be thirty or fifty, in his fingerless black gloves, leather jacket and Ferrari cap—in short, a man beyond time and space.

Then she remembers that a piece of pizza alone costs seven or eight euro here. The glass of soda she drank at lunch cost six euro. The boat to Venice and back is sixteen euro. A ticket to the Guggenheim museum costs ten euro.

How absurd, she thinks, that crowds of people to flock to museums and pay big money just to look at some paintings, while outside an artist begs for a measly ten euro just to keep drawing.

Then it strikes her that she can afford to buy one of these paintings—why not? Even though she’ll never put it on the walls of her home. Ten euro—it’s nothing, she could drop that much over next two hours, without even noticing.

She is still holding the backpack, with just one movement, she can reach for her wallet and make this man smile, letting him believe: well, here is one person who likes his art.

She is still hesitating. Mulling it over. Assessing the pros and cons. Yes, of course, why not, she will hand him ten euro, although she understands very well all those passersby who resentfully march past the man's drawings. After having seen Guggenheim , Kandinsky, Max Ernst, this street art is a little, well, how can I put it...

She has no time to say anything, because the painter jumps up, gathers his paintings in one fell swoop and runs away. At first she can’t figure out what’s going on. Then she notices the policemen striding towards them. She turns her head, but the artist is gone.

The people in front of the Guggenheim Museum stop to watch the unexpected scene.

            “What’s going on?” somebody asks.

            “Well, maybe you’re not allowed to sell paintings here,” another voice answers.

            “He might be like those Tunisians who sell fake bags up the street. They regularly get chased away by police raids,” a third voice suggests.

She finally manages to push all her things into her backpack and is about to walk away.

Then she sees a policeman coming back, holding one of the street artist’s pictures and waving it at the crowd.

“Any idea where this came from?” the policeman asks, pointing at the drawing.

It is one of the landscapes, showing Piazza San Marco and the doves. The people around her start giggling. The policeman raises his voice, thinking the crowd is laughing at him.

            “Unknown artist from the beginning of the century,” somebody behind her suggests in a quiet voice.

Another ripple of laughter splits the air.       

“Well... maybe it’s from in there,” she replies, astonished by her own boldness.  “Better ask in the museum, it might be from their collection,” she adds, pointing at the museum entrance.

Then she walks off, smiling quietly and murmuring in a low voice: “Well, we finally made it inside.”