"You are walking down the street when something catches your eye. You stop and stare for a long while, amazed and fascinated. What are you looking at?"
This fall I was walking down the crowded streets of the China Town district in San Francisco. I was snapping pictures left and right so I can share my experience back home. Taking whiffs of different teas, staring into warm colorful shops and hearing the chatter of Asian dialects I slowly start immersing myself into this culture.
As I continue walking, I hear this beautiful heart wrenching melody coming from the other side of a narrow street. Wrapping my arms tightly around myself to keep warm I start to follow the noise, I find myself in the door stoop of an abandoned church looking at an elderly man who was clearly as cold as I. Clad in old jeans and a faded Disneyland sweatshirt sitting on an old rickety stool. The source of the melody was coming from an instrument that I was unfamiliar with which sat on his lap on top of a dishtowel.
It had a long neck with two strings attached. They led from the top of the neck around two pegs, to the bottom around this drum looking box. On the box was what seemed hand carved intrict designs that led to the top of the neck.
The man was so absorbed in playing that he did not seem to notice me. I sat down on the curb and just listened to him strum. Being someone who has no musical talent, I was amazed with the way he was able to play such emotional music with a bow and two strings. With eyes closed, he coaxed these notes out with skilled fingers, like a tailor with a needle. He seems to become one with this instrument, with his body swaying in harmony with the instrument and with the music that poured forth. I watched as his face contorted with sadness, anger and hope, his expression matching the piece he was playing. I felt the weight of the notes that he played hit me one by one. Each sending shivers down my spine and making me forget where I was.
When the musical piece was over the man opened his eyes and seemed bewildered to see me there watching him. Jumping up I apologized for scaring him and thanked him for playing. I told him that he was playing such beautiful music I could not just walk past him. A grin came to his face and he looked beside him. I did not notice it before but there was an open case next to him with a handful of pictures attached to it. I guessed it was his family. Probably still in the country or dead, I was hoping for the first. I asked him if I could take his picture. He seemed overjoyed to do so. I thanked him again, gave him ten dollars and went on my way. Today that picture is on the inside of my binder, a constant reminder of the that day.
This fall I was walking down the crowded streets of the China Town district in San Francisco. I was snapping pictures left and right so I can share my experience back home. Taking whiffs of different teas, staring into warm colorful shops and hearing the chatter of Asian dialects I slowly start immersing myself into this culture.
As I continue walking, I hear this beautiful heart wrenching melody coming from the other side of a narrow street. Wrapping my arms tightly around myself to keep warm I start to follow the noise, I find myself in the door stoop of an abandoned church looking at an elderly man who was clearly as cold as I. Clad in old jeans and a faded Disneyland sweatshirt sitting on an old rickety stool. The source of the melody was coming from an instrument that I was unfamiliar with which sat on his lap on top of a dishtowel.
It had a long neck with two strings attached. They led from the top of the neck around two pegs, to the bottom around this drum looking box. On the box was what seemed hand carved intrict designs that led to the top of the neck.
The man was so absorbed in playing that he did not seem to notice me. I sat down on the curb and just listened to him strum. Being someone who has no musical talent, I was amazed with the way he was able to play such emotional music with a bow and two strings. With eyes closed, he coaxed these notes out with skilled fingers, like a tailor with a needle. He seems to become one with this instrument, with his body swaying in harmony with the instrument and with the music that poured forth. I watched as his face contorted with sadness, anger and hope, his expression matching the piece he was playing. I felt the weight of the notes that he played hit me one by one. Each sending shivers down my spine and making me forget where I was.
When the musical piece was over the man opened his eyes and seemed bewildered to see me there watching him. Jumping up I apologized for scaring him and thanked him for playing. I told him that he was playing such beautiful music I could not just walk past him. A grin came to his face and he looked beside him. I did not notice it before but there was an open case next to him with a handful of pictures attached to it. I guessed it was his family. Probably still in the country or dead, I was hoping for the first. I asked him if I could take his picture. He seemed overjoyed to do so. I thanked him again, gave him ten dollars and went on my way. Today that picture is on the inside of my binder, a constant reminder of the that day.
