Growing up in Argentina, the images that perfectly represented the
U.S to me was an ice-cold martini, the blues and jazz.
I envision everyone in pork-pie hats or long satin dresses sipping from tall
martinis. That, to me, was what was exclusively and elegantly America.
When I came to New York fourteen years ago and began going to jazz
clubs I realized that although the music itself had changed dramatically
over forty years, there were still sentient moments when a musician
glances out at the audience after a heart-wrenching solo or he tenderly
pulls his bass close to him like a child. Moments like those that Roy DeCarava
captured with a piercing immediacy, stealing a glimpse of John Coltrane
boyishly burying his head in the enormous shoulder of Ben Webster.
I waited anxiously through each show for those moments when the thrill
of the music transported the musicians and their glory could be read on
their faces or in the way they touched their instruments.
I began photographing these moments when the musicians slipped out
of time and into that resplendent realm that runs eternal through jazz.
I became intrigued with the perilous craft of capturing that moment so that,
later, when someone sees the photograph without the music they have
a thick description of all that was contained in that sublime second.
Because most jazz clubs are almost impenetrably dark, most photographers
will instinctively use a flash on the camera. One night's observation made me
realize quickly, though, that the sharp flash of light penetrating the stillness
of that moment jolted the musicians right out of it.
To ensure that I would not disturb the rarity of the musician's feeling or
upset the band's fragile balance, I left my flash at home. I learned to photograph
them at those moments when they slipped into delight without disrupting their
euphoria. I learned to wait, compose the frame, inhale deeply and shot.
Visit the Tato's website at www.picturetrail.com/tatonow.
All photos copyright © Tato Riquelme.
All Rights Reserved.
