“so you’ll aim toward the sky
and you’ll rise high today
far away, far away
far from pain.

good luck
thank you ”

grandaddy – so you’ll aim toward the sky

last check up before going into the arena. i like to call the one-meter-wide space between the stage and the public that way, because i know that me and the other photographers will fight with curtesy for the best spots. i’m the first one, yet, and i pretend to look very busy with my equipment so that no one behind the barriers will want to talk to me. it’s not that i don’t want any contact with people, but as my friend lara said to me the first time i was making pictures with her, if they catch your eyes, next thing you know, they’ll ask for pictures.

a photographer in his fifties shows up and i can’t help but look at his cameras. traditionnal. i spot right away his leica m6 and 2/50mm summilux. and his used slr. slrS even. another one makes his way near the stage, in his fifties too, greets me with a shallow “good evenin’ ” and has a good hand shaking with the first one. they’ve placed their bags on the floor as if to mark their territories. can’t blame them, i’ve done the same. he extracts a damn good digital slr from his bag, and the lens that’s on my top ten most wanted items list. being young and starting puts me in the position of a kid in a candy store when i’m among experienced photographers.

the lights go off. a powerful blue spotlight at the back of the stage blinds me, but i stay casual, as excitation starts to rise along my spine. the guitarist appears and slowly, starts to play, soon rejoined by the piano/keyboard/weird sounds player. it’s not music yet, merely a slow complaint and rhythm, an anticipation. the crowd hold its breath, waiting. i don’t see the drummer walking on the stage and take his seat, because i start to hear the trumpet.
inevitably present, the twinge of the notes seems to come from nowhere, up and down the scale, it flows, it flys into the big concert hall, it takes over the slow rhythm and keyboard sounds, it melts within the shadows created by the spotlights that start to spread a dim yellow colored light. so here and so not here at the same time. so present and so distant, as if you could hear a sound and its echo at the same time. i can almost see the ghost of the trumpet and its player on the empty bar stool that waits near the huge piano.
the tempo accelerates. the trumpet seems to have a life on its own, as the notes run from nowhere in a rush of excitment, i can imagine them dangling from the player’s fingers then speeding from behind the curtain to invade the hall, fluttering under the high ceiling, and finally dancing on people heads…

and erik truffaz appears at last, as if to remind me that i’m on duty and that i’ve got too much imagination. he’s still playing. the room shakes with cheers and applauses, as erik takes his spot at the center of the stage. his head is bent down, his fingers touching lightly but surely the keys, like a caress, like there’s nothing in the world but his shining golden instrument. the lights turn brighter, still in yellow tones, and as he moves slowly, i can see his blond hair floating around his pale face, capturing the light, playing with it as if it’s its own forever.
i start to frame. excitment has not quite left me, but i can feel that now it’s begun, concentration is taking over, and a strange mix of peace, easiness, deep content and urge is flooding my veins. at this precise moment, there’s no other place in the world i’d like to be. i’m conscious that i’m here to do my job, but if it’s my job to feel that way, i won’t abandon it for all the gold in the world. i wonder what the other photographers feel now.

i’d started to worry about whether they’d be nice to me when i got there, or whether they’d be asses, and put me to test. all i can see now, is that they’re fair, not giving anything, but fair. one of them tries to find its way behind me and i can feel one of his hands lightly touching my back, on my waist, not stronly enough for me to give him a real nasty and angry look, but long enough for me to know that weren’t i a young slender woman, he would have never touched me.

i focus back on the hands, the face, the golden trumpet, i frame lights around his golden electric hair and play with what i see. it’s all a game to me, an intense game of beauty only limitated by time and two rolls of films. all the rest is mine, i think to myself as i move quietly and bent low, as not to annoy too much the poeple who actually paid their ticket.
the two others don’t seem to care that much, they’re just careful not to pass in front of each other and me, which is why i think they’re fair. assholes would pretend to care but would deliberately pass in front of my lens, just to test me, just because i’m a girl and i’m young.
i focus and time flows. after the fifteen first pictures, i’m not too sure about how many times i press the button. the first roll is finished on time, in the middle of the second song. i reload. i could restrain myself, but i don’t really want to. and i know that if i was to stay the whole concert, i’d shoot ten rolls.
i’ll learn to shoot less with experience, or maybe, when i’ll be too broke to afford it. but when i’m making pictures, i don’t count. i shoot until i know, even if i know that i have the best picture of the evening. it doesn’t matter, i know that proportionally, the more i make, the more chances i have to make good shots. yet, it’s not my point. my point is just to feel i’m making pictures with the music invading me, occulting all my senses but my ears and eyes, to feel that i’m doing what i know best, with what i love best.

i feel it coming. the end of the third song. i wait. i just have one last picture to take, and when the trumpet exhale its last note, as if it’s dying only to be born again, i slowly press the button.
i gather my bag and stuff and leave. the two other photographers are staying. i know why. the manager had told me that erik didn’t mind pictures to be taken during the whole show, as long as the photographers used the most discretion. yet, the security has stated that i could stay only the first three songs. i’ve seen the two other argue, and they probably made their point. they’re staying. i’m leaving. i know that i might miss the most beautiful picture if i leave now, but i don’t have a digital expensive camera, i don’t have three traditionnal ones fully loaded and a dozen spare films. and even if i had extra films, i would still leave. i may not be paying my ticket to take pictures, but i’m aware of every cent i spend to be here tonight. i know the cost of each picture i’m making. no one is paying me, no one will be paying the costs that i barely can afford. so i leave the photographers play with the now pink and blue lights, the shining trumpet and the player with magic fingers.

at the back of the concert hall, i notice right away that the atmosphere is different. people are going in and out, hanging around the bar, talking, laughing quietly but their mutters get on my nerves. here, the music is flatter. or maybe it’s just me who find it flatter, because suddenly, i’m aware that i don’t know anything about it. at the back of the concert hall, the music is stranger to me, estranged from me, and i’m all alone. i try to follow, but i’m distracted, not able to concentrate on the music only, as if all the emotion has left me with the last picture that i’ve made. becoming conscious of that fact is slightly bothering me, yet, i know that there’s nothing i can do about it, the harder i’ll want to feel, the less i will. still, i have memories of the frames that i’ve made, so i play with them until the lights go on again, and show me the people content about their evening.

and i wonder, i really wonder, what have they felt during the show ? not at the surface, nothing to be read in their words or their tilted heads, but really, deeply, almost unconsciously, what have they felt ?

if there’s one thing in the world i wish i was able to do (except jutsitsu, of course), it’s to take pictures of a good concert, feel the music soak into me, and write what i feel, all at the same time.

having sex at the same time, too, would be great also. but it complicates the equation a lot more.

let’s see.
being at a concert and enjoying the music is simple. making pictures of the musicians and still feeling the music is simple too.
having sex while there’s some music is fairly simple, too. but not at a concert.
make pictures while having sex isn’t above my skills, although i don’t know which would turn me on the most.
writing while making pictures is too tricky. same goes for writing and having sex. and common sense would require a better use for my hands then, than with a paper and a pen, mind you. and writing while having sex isn’t my top priority when i come to think about it.

which leads us to my conclusion for the evening : human beings are simply not designed to do more than two things at the same time.
depending on the two things, of course.

my second conclusion for the evening being : never listen to jazz when you’re single. it’s amazing which thoughts can raise from the vibrant moan of a lonely trumpet.

vicky’s name for december and christmas time is sakura. she has no clue who sakura must be, but she likes to pretend that she does, after inquiring to me who sakura can be. i prentend that i have a clue, too, and tell her she must be some manga character. good looking ? vicky wants to know. i smile. i bet she is, i say, all manga female’s character are anyway. i wink. one of my bosses has given vicky that name, stating that it was perfect for her. vicky had looked a bit puzzled. you know who it is, right ? my boss had asked. of course, vicky had answered. but two days after the fact, she’s still clueless.

vicky is asian. i would place my bet on chinese, although i have never asked her. her accent is strong and we often have to ask her to repeat herself, because she makes no tangible effort being understood. she reminds me of phoene, who’s been raised in the french deepest country and has no asian accent whatsoever, but would imitate it perfectly, while mocking the waitresses of take-away chinese restaurants. phoene would have me laugh so hard that i would soon shake and almost cry with hysterical laughter when she joked like that. that would happen just minutes before she would prentend to find out for the first time how ticklish i am. but she wouldn’t have to tickle me or imitate any asian accent she could to make me laugh. most of the times, just being around her would light a sparkle in my eyes, and bring a smile on my face.

vicky wants to know rumours and gossips, and although i have just been working at the shop for a year, i know some. i try to speak on a low tone, aware that we’re just near the caf?, where people sit at the tables to read some books they will never buy and leave on the first shelf they’ll find on their way out. the scent of their caf? latte is about to drive me nuts. vicky asks me to talk louder. i guess i don’t mind anymore, and soon, she can’t believe her ears. i’m just playing over and over my role of the naughty kid, and i feel quite like one, since every one of my buddies calls me harry by now. hey harry, how’re you doin’ harry, harry, i needed a magic trick with that customer, where were you ?
but i don’t mind the least bit. most of them know why one of my bosses has thought about calling me harry potter. you two are…alike, aren’t you ? vicky asks. i look at her above my glasses. you bet, is what i answer.

vicky must be in her thirties, early thirties. i come to think that she’s guessed pretty much more about me than i could guess about her. i don’t know if she has a husband, or a boyfriend, i don’t know if she has any kids. the only personal thing that i recall about her, is that time when i came into our locker’s room and saw her crying on the phone, in a rush of undescribable anger. but at her counter, vicky only seems bored, and always has a quick smile when we greet her.

vicky is lost in her thoughts. how do you think i could find out who sakura is ? she asks me thoughtfully.
go ahead and find the manga, i suggest. she’s off now, she thanks me for the gossips which i know she’ll soon spread, despite her swearing that she won’t. not that i mind, gossips are meant to be passed around as long as they’re not really nasty, aren’t they ?
i come home and make a quick research on the internet. except the usual porn sites, i find a cool drawing of a young cheesy magician, or princess, with blond hair and honey eyes.
this isn’t vicky at all, but i’m sure she’ll be glad to know that sakura is a pretty chick.

que ceux qui ont d?j? subit une semaine compl?te de migraines ophtalmiques aussi lancinantes que vachement chiantes l?vent la main.

bien.

comme ?a, les autres peuvent ? loisir penser (et dire aussi, ne soyons pas chiches) que je suis une asociale – flemmarde et menteuse qui plus est – si ?a leur chante. et s’il y a des rancuniers parmi ces autres, je dois dire que je m’en fous au moins autant que le plat pr?f?r? de l’imp?ratrice de chine.
y’a pas d’imp?ratrice en chine ?
ben justement !