Location: Bethesda Terrace, Central Park
Date: Spring, circa 2003
I was living in New Jersey and had taken the train in to New York City on one of my regular day trips. I had fallen in love with the city before I had ever seen it in person. If NYC was my soul mate, then Central Park was our love child. In the few times I've been there, I have barely scratched the surface of the potential.
I had been wandering through the park, not really aiming for a particular destination. Just strolling along the paths, allowing them to guide me in their own directions. As I got closer to Bethesda Terrace, I could hear a quiet music flowing through the spring air. Violin. Soft and slow, touching and graceful. Reminding me of one of my great loves, being in the presence of a live orchestra. Very few things bring my heart to a swell as does the rise and fall of such emotional music.
The light was perfect. Filtering through the trees, cutting across the grass, bouncing off the pavement, highlighting the secret treasures throughout the park. And then I came to the stairs. A perfect silhouette. Standing alone, beneath the terrace. The chamber of architecture amplifying his tune. I have no idea what piece he was gracing me with. But it was exactly what I needed to hear. It made me weep.
It is one of those moments that you wish you could capture and lock away in a box. Revisit days and years later, attempting to savor the same feelings and sensations as when it first became a part of you. I suppose that is why I find such fulfillment in taking photographs. I enjoy the ability to grasp that one moment in time that I'm afraid I might forget.
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