A rusty wheelbarrow full of yellow-red pomegranates sits on the cracked sidewalk; beside it, a scruffy farmer tipped back in his chair, waiting to sell his fruit by the kilo to evening passersby. Not the stuff of dreams to Turkish villagers in harvest-time. But an astonishing sight to this American who pays in gold for three perfect globes for her coffee table display each Thanksgiving. Yet that same farmer, nor his wife, couldn't, wouldn't dream of placing such ordinary items in a decorative category. To marvel, surely -- how shall we agree that these are a dream, or the everyday?
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