Ave Maria

After several days of freezing cold and rain, the sun emerges.  There's nothing tentative or half hearted about it, it streams full strength through the windows and the chill I feared might last for months finally, although very reluctantly, is forced to give a little ground.  I am grateful but still cautious as I pack my camera gear - it is still December after all - and sunlight can be a deceptive old dog, slow to move, a little tired, and not as fierce as it once was.  Much like me, I think, and sling my bag over my shoulder.

As a venue, the small church across the river is nearly perfect for a classical guitarist on a Sunday afternoon.
Although I've listened to him for years, this is my first time to actually see him perform and I'm delighted to find he looks exactly the way he sounds on the radio - a small man, with a beard, mustache, and wavy silver hair that looks almost feminine - he's dressed in an elegant tux and perched comfortably on a raised platform at the front of the sanctuary.  He's playing, very softly but intently, as the audience begins to file in and take their seats.  Sunlight filters in through the stain glass windows and the crowd is instinctively hushed.  I'm acutely aware of how loud the sound of my shutter seems to be - the background quiet is almost unnerving - and I say a small prayer that I'm not a distraction.  As if he senses my thoughts, he looks at me and smiles and the whole room seems to light up.  Halfway through the concert, I realize that he's so focused, so one with the music, that he barely knows I'm there although I'm less sure of the rest of the audience.  I try to time my shots to coincide with the applause but I've never shot in such complete and stunning silence and I feel awkward. No one coughs or clears their throats, there's no hum of an air conditioner, no outside or background noise at all.
It's a startling and slightly eerie experience and I can only hope the pictures will be worth it.

Most musicians I know have some kind of empathy with their instruments - many actually name them - but I can't remember a single one who seemed so in tune.  I watch his fingers fly over the frets with a whispery lightness, head bent and eyes closed as he begins "Ave Maria".  There is an exquisite delicacy to his touch and without realizing it I lower my camera and let it rest in my lap.  After a moment or two, I find myself in tears, moved by the sheer and astonishing beauty of Shubert and the man who plays it so lovingly.

There aren't that many perfect moments in life but this is one.