I had never really been a fan of French culture, the language was alien to me and the history seemed too rambling and repetitive for my liking. Aside from the occasional interest in the ongoing conflict, I never really bothered to pay attention in French or History class. I still never really cared even when James and I decided to visit Paris as a new place for our photography and music. I didn’t really care about Paris or France at all, only the events that took place there, when I met him.
Our old, cramped, and frightfully last minute, rented apartment for the three months we were staying in France was awfully stuffy. Even though France was quite away from the equator the heat was a rather discomforting contrast from back home in New Jersey. The need to wear shorts became annoyingly apparent and I could only barely manage to keep from melting in the dark and grungy attire I usually wore. Incidentally James found it rather hilarious. Our rooms were packed with our cameras, inks, computers and mixing equipment. I was eager to get started, capturing the life and soul of the streets of a new country, and decided on the first day we stayed I would go for a walk to familiarise myself with the area.
It was about dusk, the sun slowly falling into the distance as the faint orange glow bled into the sky. I pulled out a pack of Marlboro, took a long and well-earned drag, and made my way down the dinky looking street.
A small café, hidden from most passer-bys, resided at the end of the street with the thin cloud of second hand smoke emitted from the women sat outside talking in their thick French accents. Even if I didn’t take much of an interest for French culture I definitely found it captivating. I entered the quaint café and ordered a cappuccino to go. Looks of curiosity from locals stuck on me like glue followed me out the café and I felt rather dazed by how much attention a foreigner would attract, if I had known I probably wouldn’t have bothered even going outside but I knew it was childish to resort back to avoiding social contact with the outside world. I had wasted enough time doing that.
As I progressed down the street I could hear a faint sound. At first I thought it was just an audio playing in a nearby store or cart, but as I turned a corner of the cobbled ground I saw the huge ebony piano in the middle of small green, surrounded an array of flowers. A crowd of about eight or so were congressed around the player all looking in a sort of trance in which the player had them all. The tune was beautifully depressing; probably written by the player. I caught a glimpse through a gap in the audience.
Thick raven locks sprawled out from the top of his head but in a stylish fashion, a crisp white shirt creased in a rather flattering way, a slimming black waistcoat neatly in place over the shirt. All topped off with a pair of sunglasses that slid to the end of his nose slightly when he tilted his head at the keys. This was something I had, needed, to photograph. This wasn’t the life and soul of France but it was the life and soul of something or more importantly someone. Even the way he twitched his mouth or scrunched his nose ever so slightly throughout the piece ever few notes or so interested me. This man was quite the character and I hadn’t even talked to him yet. However I had found my new project.
