Welcome to Martin’s Produce Wholesale, Roanoke, a watercolor love letter to every guy who ever stacked fruit at 5:00 a.m., took a smoke break at 5:15, and paid off the last $17 of his Ford pickup at 5:30.
Painted by Anne Bell—who, let’s be honest, deserves a damn medal for capturing such stoic masculinity without ever once idealizing it—this piece is a quietly revolutionary act. Forget your Monet water lilies and your Rothko color walls. Bell gives us something far more radical: a working man. Not abstract, not mythologized—just there, heavy with years, cradling tomatoes like they owe him child support.
And look at that face: lined, tired, maybe slightly annoyed that you’re staring at him while he’s trying to get through his day without bruising a single heirloom. He is all of us. Tired. Alert. Sober but hoping not for long.
The background says Martin’s Produce Wholesale, Roanoke, which is either a real place or the most heartbreakingly specific metaphor for a forgotten America this side of a Bruce Springsteen b-side. There’s a sweetness to it all—a community, a rhythm, a commitment to doing things right. But there’s also the undertone of a slow decay, like a tomato left too long in the bin. Vine-ripe, yes—but for how much longer?
This isn’t Norman Rockwell. Bell doesn’t ask you to smile. She dares you to respect. Respect the grind, the dirt, the dull glory of small-town commerce. Respect the men who make sure your BLT doesn’t taste like a tragedy.
When did we stop seeing poetry in the produce aisle?
Because Anne Bell sure didn’t.
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