Sunset in San Antonio found me grudgingly pressing forward in a sort of forced march along the city's snaking River Walk, accompanied only by my reflection in the murky water. The sun had hastened its descent in the recent hours, and now peered through the imposing and jagged man-made skyline. As I pushed on, bathing in the day's final, orange sunbeams, a terse admonition nagged at my inner-ear - it was late, and I had taken no photographs.
Like a paper whisked away by the wind, the photogenic city-folk eluded me throughout the early evening. Where were the dancers, street performers and eccentrics who populated the streets days before, leaving me mesmerized and vaguely regretful for leaving my camera by my bedside?
I found myself the punchline of an internalized tragi-comedy - one, I noticed, scored by an unfamiliar, external soundtrack. I was lifted from my haze by the sound of a lone trumpeter, expounding his musical messages into the atmosphere.
How surreal is the perception of a musician's work, but not his whereabouts; the vague, fleeting knowledge of their existence, confirmed by distant emanations of sound, then challenged by bouts of silence and resurgence of city-noise. The teasing hope that creative forces will overpower the artificial and mechanical, and, however briefly, encapsulate the world in the hypnotic spell which presently captivated me.
Rounding the river's bend, I came upon him. A short, sun-baked man of maybe thirty, with a trumpet that had shed several of patches of lacquer over the years. He sat on a wall of rock, looking out on the water. There was no tip jar at his feet, and no attempts were made to allure strange ears. This was art, not business.
I began snapping frames. First, a long shot to frame his silhouette against the pale lights of the bridge. I moved in to focus in on the minute details overlooked during c
asual observance: hands, leathery from years of cradling his instrument; his expression, almost weary from innumerable hours spent contemplating the music he created, and the world he sent it into.
Finished with my task, I shook his hand and departed. Behind me, the music resumed, as shimmering reflections of light danced atop the river's rippling surface, to the tune of the twilight trumpeter.
- S. Taylor
Like a paper whisked away by the wind, the photogenic city-folk eluded me throughout the early evening. Where were the dancers, street performers and eccentrics who populated the streets days before, leaving me mesmerized and vaguely regretful for leaving my camera by my bedside?
I found myself the punchline of an internalized tragi-comedy - one, I noticed, scored by an unfamiliar, external soundtrack. I was lifted from my haze by the sound of a lone trumpeter, expounding his musical messages into the atmosphere.
How surreal is the perception of a musician's work, but not his whereabouts; the vague, fleeting knowledge of their existence, confirmed by distant emanations of sound, then challenged by bouts of silence and resurgence of city-noise. The teasing hope that creative forces will overpower the artificial and mechanical, and, however briefly, encapsulate the world in the hypnotic spell which presently captivated me.
Rounding the river's bend, I came upon him. A short, sun-baked man of maybe thirty, with a trumpet that had shed several of patches of lacquer over the years. He sat on a wall of rock, looking out on the water. There was no tip jar at his feet, and no attempts were made to allure strange ears. This was art, not business.
I began snapping frames. First, a long shot to frame his silhouette against the pale lights of the bridge. I moved in to focus in on the minute details overlooked during c
asual observance: hands, leathery from years of cradling his instrument; his expression, almost weary from innumerable hours spent contemplating the music he created, and the world he sent it into.Finished with my task, I shook his hand and departed. Behind me, the music resumed, as shimmering reflections of light danced atop the river's rippling surface, to the tune of the twilight trumpeter.
- S. Taylor
This is a really well-written post, but it left me hoping to see a photos by the end of the man you described. Sometimes the content of a blog post will help in determining the need for a graphic element, but in this case, it almost screams for one to reinforce the mental picture people build of this man as they read your description of him. Again, very nicely written!
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