Prakhar Amba, Grenoble Life’s very own photographer-flâneur, strolls the stalls of the Brocante des quais du Vieux Grenoble, June 13. Here are his photos and impressions.

Last Sunday (June 13th) I was walking along the pedestrian bridge on Isère which gives a wonderful viewpoint of the cable car (Les Bulles), crossing the river to the Bastille. I saw an unusual number of cycles chained to the bridge. I followed them to discover a flea market on the Quai de la Perrière, Grenoble, leading up to the rue Saint Laurent.

I started with a shop selling plastic dolls. One look at the price tag (150 euro) and the silent horror on my face must have convinced the shopkeeper to nod sharply to me, “yes,” and silently mumble, “get away,” or something of that sorts. I walked away wondering, is this really a flea market? Thankfully, as I walked deeper into the market prices fell to earthly levels and whole loads of antiques and curiosities were on display.

Lots of toys, train sets, gramophones, rotary telephones, big-box AM/PM radios, video games, hats and all sorts of knick knacks were present at bargain prices. It was like a walk into the past. Remember the good old days when the world was analogue, things were made in wood and real brass knobs and lasted generations? I tried to fathom the age of the Remington typewriter, alive enough to type out another letter –wondering if today somebody would bother to keep their keyboard for even 20 years.

Somehow the planned obsolescence of today’s products (three years lifecycle max.) has taken away the memories we used to have with our possessions. What would the flea market of future look like? I wondered as I photographed the flea market of today.

My wife bought two porcelains dolls (10 euro a piece) dressed in 19th century clothes, from an old grandmother who had a hard time parting with them. She had had them since her childhood and gave one last brush to their hair, passing on her memories.

“Keep walking at rue Saint Laurent”

Prakhar Amba is an avid amateur photographer and regular contributor to the Grenoble Life Gallery. On 18th July 2009 he participated in the Worldwide Photowalk in Grenoble, Grenoble Life invited Prakhar to share his photos and experience …

by Prakhar Amba

“Keep Walking” says the logo of a leading whisky manufacturer. It is slightly difficult for me to imagine the sight of a figure in a black hat and waistcoat striding along with a half empty bottle in his hand. Oops! He tripped and fell down! Anyway, it could serve well for photographers who like to bring out the extraordinary in the seemingly mundane tasks and places which occupy our lives. On 18th July a Worldwide Photowalk was organized where more than 32,000 photographers walked (and shot thousands of photos) in more than 900 cities of the world. I walked in Grenoble.

For me the best way to see a city is not to visit its monuments and museums but to walk in its streets, for it provides a window to observe the daily rhythms of the life of its denizens. So I love to walk, in the rush hour or the afternoon pause, to observe life flow around, oblivious of the clothes lines, the graffiti, the flowerpots on the balcony, the empty beer cans, the rusty paint and so many small things which gives each city a unique character. On July 18th 2009 I walked in the company of 40 other photographers, which made it even more interesting because each individual has his own way of approaching the street. It was a sensory overload to walk the streets of Grenoble through the eyes (or the lens) of so many.

"Kids with cameras"

We started from Place aux herbes and walked towards the Quai underneath snow flake-shaped electric lights and worn-out shoes hanging between balconies. I am yet to understand the significance of the shoes being hung in the city streets – back at home it would be to ward-off evil. We walk through narrow alleyways along shops evoking Aromes D’Asie & D’Orient and several restaurants from all four corners of the world. All around me are people shooting and, well, we are a sight in ourselves. Seeing so many cameras a little boy gets excited and has his moment of fame.

"Rock da party"

A little further along someone is enjoying his cuppa of mint tea in a couscous shop. If the world was black and white, England would be tea and France would be café, but thankfully we live in shades of grey and so in France we can enjoy aromatic tea and tisane.

"Mint tea"

Closer to the Quai Stéphane Jay a girl walks by as the signal turns green. As an Indian, I am told by the French how colourful my country is. No doubt, but I should say so is France, home to the fashion industry which is, afterall, all about colour. In India tea is always brown but here I have drunk tea in shades of vanilla, mint, orange and several others. A glass of red wine adds colour to your meal. And red and green chairs add colour to the streets of Grenoble.

"... and she walks away"

Finally the Quai, to the sight Grenoble is famous for: Les Bulles. There was a photographer who made the same shot with a pinhole camera. He had stuck a hole in a tin spaghetti can and put a black tape to cover it. Inside there was light-sensitive film: peel the tape off to make an exposure. I always saw those in physics books but this was the first time in action. It was difficult to frame shots at the bridge because there were so many photographers around. As I walked across the bridge an old lady walked her four dogs, someone flew a kite in the middle of the bridge and many watched the world pass by from their balconies.

Grenoble - Les Bulles

On the other side of the bridge at “La Cymaise” someone enjoyed his smoke while another his café and croissant. And all the while people kept shooting. There was one crouched on road waiting for the man to light his smoke. As an old photographer’s guidebook says, “one mans smoke is another man’s photo”. Ok, no one says that but I personally find smokers an interesting subject. The way they hold the stick, the smoke breathing out of the nose and the signs of pleasure of their face.

"Café and croissant"

"Smokers at La Cymaise"

"Draw a smoke"

Now we climb towards the Musée Dauphinois, and here its not the artwork displayed inside but the gentle curve of a door knob which makes me wonder of the countless hands which turned it.

"Turn me gently"

Have you seen the movie Amélie (Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain)? In the movie one of Snow White’s dwarves travels around the world getting photographed at all the major sights. People have their idiosyncrasies, they like to get photographed with their Bugs Bunny and Mickey Mouse at the Taj Mahal or the Eiffel Tower. I met one who liked to photograph his (not her) Barbie doll.

"Barbie on a fence"

We climb down and walk through Place Victor Hugo to one of Grenoble’s well kept secrets, the Garage Hélicoidale just behind the FNAC. You enter it amidst the sooty walls and smell of fumes not expecting to see much really but its so much more than just un parking. Numerous floors wind upwards in a circular helix topped by a glass roof that becomes its source of skylight, emphasizing and illuminating its climbing gradient. The best part of the for me was to see the whole structure reflected in a car parked in the basement.

"Garage Hélicoidale"

Goodbyes said and ‘Au revoir’ wished and we disperse. I walk back home with the thought in my head “Keep walking and keep shooting” – for in each nook and corner of our world are hidden moments worth capturing. Even garages can be more than just for parking your car and then forgetting where you left it.

Prakhar Amba is an accomplished photographer and regular contributor to the Grenoble Life Gallery, including these magical ones of Fête de la musique 2009 in Grenoble. The pictures suggested a story, and Grenoble Life invited Prakhar to tell his …

by Prakhar Amba

Whenever I ask the French what they miss most when they visit foreign countries, the most common responses in order of priority are le pain and le fromage. There is never a third response. Now I am an Indian, a country best described by the word ‘diversity’, be it languages, colours, smells, spices or music.  Music is everywhere in India, it is in the loudspeaker playing the latest Bollywood hit, the brass band blaring in a marriage procession, the cacophonous symphony of the tuc tuc’s horn as it criss-crosses the traffic, or the prayers at the banks of holy rivers. Life for us revolves around music. After all, even our Gods are master of their own musical instruments, be it Krishna’s flute or Shiva’s daamru.

Needless to add, the thing about India I miss the most is music. Here in Grenoble, the streets are silent, even the traffic is muted. So I anxiously awaited La fête de la musique on June 21st, and I was not disappointed. But how does one write about music? After all, Victor Hugo said “Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and cannot remain silent”. Words fail me, but maybe images say it better, for they are stuck forever in the moment when the singer lets go and you are immersed in the note never to escape. So I set off for the centre ville in the pleasant Sunday afternoon on my metro vélo with my camera. The wind blowing in my hair, my ears open to catch any musical notes floating by. And the soft notes of violins pull me to the church next to Place Victor Hugo.

Here a group of children played their violins. Ah violins! There already is something mystical about its curves and the mirrored ‘s’. To behold the sight of kids nimbly working the strings and the accompanying gasps from the parents is quite something. After all, music is not only played by the musician but has to be appreciated by the listeners. It reminded me of a poem by Tagore I read in school which spoke of music being born from the crash of the sea waves (player) on the shore (listener). Music of the wind (player) rustling through the forest (listener) and here before me was the same interplay between the player and the listener.

To add to the magic of the moment was the conductress who, through the swish and swirl of her hands, wove tales of love and despair in the music.

I also found a little cherubin sitting in a corner, practicing her violin with her friends. You know the shot which makes you smile, when you know you captured the moment right. For me it was this. I don’t know the music they played, Vivaldi or Beethoven, it didn’t matter for me. For me a smile played on the faces of everyone present. The performance ended, and endless claps and graces later the group dispersed. The violins are packed in their cases for another day.

I move on to another street where a girl sings enchantingly. She sings in English but music knows no language and it is appreciated by all. She sings jazz, or was it blues or maybe folk? I know not. For me she sung from her heart, she sung of love and longing.

Sometimes I wonder why most of our songs are about love and the most beautiful of them are those of love lost.  Maybe it’s because we as humans fare poorly in expressing our love for another through words that we burst into a song to do the same. No doubt in Bollywood every expression of love is faithfully followed by a song. To say ‘I love you’ to someone for the first time is never going to be easy until you practice it a hundred times, setting it to the tune of your favorite song. Even mystically speaking, Sufism is for instance a facet of Islam in which divine love for God is expressed through music. Similarly with Hindus, the Bhakti tradition is love songs for the mystical lover, Krishna.

And now its time for some punk – around the corner a group plays with the lead singer swaying in her skirt causing the traffic to snarl down while onlookers gulp down glasses of beer. I thought France was more about wine but it seems with music it has to be beer. Music beckons me to move forward, somewhere from a narrow alley flows a song in a language which I know not of. Maybe it’s Spanish or Portuguese or Zulu, I care not for I can move to the beats of the drum and the singer, she has nirvana written all over her face. She sings as if she is in a trance.  I imagine she sings of reunion with her lost lover for otherwise I cannot explain her expression.

She opens her eyes and all is silent. We wait maybe for a cue before everyone breaks into applause. A moment of awakening. And then there is guitar solo. The guitar is I believe one of the most versatile instruments, from the Spanish to the electric it has a certain aura about it and can break into the most beautiful and unexpected notes. So here was the guy who performed a duo with the girl with the drums and made people tap their feet.

I move on towards the Gare but the streets are silent so I decide to explore the river side. On the bridge from where you can see the cable car (les bulles) are a group of musicians preparing their gig. So I cross over to reach the lane of Italian pizzerias. I find Grenoble to be a gastronomical delight even compared to Paris, for here you can find good Indian restaurants and also authentic pizza. Coming back to matters of music, a delightful sight beholds me. It’s dancing skirts or, as my dad remarked on seeing the photos, dancing lehengas. Now lehenga is traditional Rajasthani dress worn by the bride at Indian marriages. One can always find similarities between cultures.

I first thought they were Italians – after all I was standing outside a pizzeria – but the music, no, it carried tones of South America and yes, they were Colombians. The music had the energy to make your foot tap but the best part was the swirling skirts, the elegance. Enough to make the passing cars honk to the beats of music. Yes, it felt like India where the traffic contributes to the music of life. It got better when I meet a friend there who introduced me to the group. The girl in maroon is the sister of the girl in pink and the one in red is their mother. The little girl whose expression I call ‘I dream of Jeannie’ is the daughter of the girl in pink. So we had three generations dancing and singing together.

Now, about the little girl. Do you know the American serial ‘I dream of Jeannie’ where the Genie granted you your three wishes by twitching her eyes? This little girl was just like her. I wonder what she wishes me. I was granted my three wishes, good music, good photographs and memories of back home. Later, I joined the group for a drink in a café nearby. See the benefits of the La fête de la musique? Making new friends. So we sat and discussed, I a little humbled in presence of such talented musicians and singers. When the question popped up – what instrument do I play? I replied, ‘none’, for I am the listener, I am the one who appreciates their magic.

Evening falls and I walk in the small lanes along Bastille where different styles of music, French, African, American, and from all nooks and corners of this wide world, fuse together to create a new symphony of harmony. We may have barriers of languages between us but music joins us for we can dance to any rhythm. Another thing I noticed was how there was space for all different kinds in the same small lane, it teaches us small lessons of co-existence with the other.

Later I walked back to Place Victor Hugo and now the space was taken by the rock gigs and an endless mass of people moving around. It was heartening to walk in the city awake even late at night, people breaking into spontaneous dances, some kissing and some holding hands. It felt good to be a part of the crowd, felt like home. To end, my favorite French instrument, I encountered it in 2000 when I first visited Paris. I still don’t know its name but it has its charms. I visited Sacré Coeur in Montmarte and there was an old man with a red cap turning little punch cards into it with a lever and out flowed music that reminded me of childhood. So here it was again in Grenoble.