Moments
I was about to start writing about Moments when the news of the death of Sir John Dankworth came in. John Dankworth, the great Jazz composer, clarinettist, saxophonist, conductor and all-round musician; you will have read the notices, seen the TV clips.
John provided me with one of those special Moments that happen to us all from time to time; not long ago he was here, sitting at our keyboard and fooling about with extemporary jazz while I flicked switches to take him from ‘Church Organ’ to ‘Electric Guitar’ to ‘Choir’, seeing him glance up at me with a wide grin at every change. When he returned from his last US tour he agreed to set some lyrics of mine for a celebratory song. It was to be performed by children’s choir later this year at the newly-opened Yorkshire Wildlife Park, special news of which I shall write about next week. That commission was among a host of his bookings and commitments of many kinds that had to be cancelled.
But I have that moment to relish, the great John Dankworth at our keyboard. That, and the moment he said ‘OK’ to setting three children’s-song lyrics of mine way back in 1992.
Thank you for the music, John.
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Moments. Those photographic moments, for example. Have you ever enjoyed the experience of having your camera pointing at a person, a group or a scene and then, a second before you pressed the button, seeing something happen? I was very pleased with myself as I pointed my Nikon at the magnificent wrought-iron gates of Green Park with the Victoria Memorial as the centre of interest. It was going to be a wonderful picture, with the shadows just right, the backlit leaves just right. And then, as my finger was about to press, the girl appeared.
And, of course, she made the picture. Without her, it would have been just one of millions of pictures from the same spot.
But there are moments that can be foreseen, too. At a garden party I wandered across the lawn where I’d noticed a boy and girl concentrating on building a tower of wooden blocks; sooner or later it was bound to collapse. I wanted to get that moment, the children’s faces, their reaction to disaster. I moved very slowly round to avoid distracting them until I knew I could get both figures and the collapsing tower. Then I waited, the camera to my eye. The moment came. Very satisfying.
Other moments have stopped me in my tracks and the result, usually much later, came a poem. Once in the Seychelles I was walking on the wide, flat beach dotted with the odd leaning palm. And then came the moment.
Always watch for the moment.
