“It don’t bother me, babe”, I whisper and lie. This of course reminds me of the Bert Jansch album with the same name, and I spend ten minutes looking at that picture with the long cold stare and the girl in the background that looks like she’s trying to be Anna Karina or something. There’s so much in that cloud of black and white, that can be used for a story. First there’s the white dress shirt, contrasting with the lion-esque bucket of hair, that curls every which way, and makes one feel wild and hungry. Then there’s the whole broken sentiment that seems to match all else. There in the bloodied outline of the soft faces, I spy a certain amount of indifference. A friend asks what I’m doing and when I tell him, he doesn’t understand and makes a quick joke. “Why lose your head over something so foolish? I mean, it doesn’t have anything to do with the music, really. It’s something visual perhaps, but that’s it, that’s all. There’s no room for aligning it with that of actual events. Besides, the way they’re sitting makes the photo look staged.” I disagree though and insist that their captured shadows, are something real, something far less forced, something telling of the moment that they had in fact shared together. What I ask next of my friend, is to focus on the man, situated on the floor. His physique is something blurred and un-recognizable, but I feel internally that I know the most about him, because of this. This is something I verbalize, and my friend leaves the room, mumbling incoherent. Later I play the same song, aforementioned on the album cover, and that same chum of mine says rather dryly, “You know, maybe I was wrong”.  Click for high-res image

“It don’t bother me, babe”, I whisper and lie.

This of course reminds me of the Bert Jansch album with the same name, and I spend ten minutes looking at that picture with the long cold stare and the girl in the background that looks like she’s trying to be Anna Karina or something.

There’s so much in that cloud of black and white, that can be used for a story. First there’s the white dress shirt, contrasting with the lion-esque bucket of hair, that curls every which way, and makes one feel wild and hungry. Then there’s the whole broken sentiment that seems to match all else. There in the bloodied outline of the soft faces, I spy a certain amount of indifference.

A friend asks what I’m doing and when I tell him, he doesn’t understand and makes a quick joke. “Why lose your head over something so foolish? I mean, it doesn’t have anything to do with the music, really. It’s something visual perhaps, but that’s it, that’s all. There’s no room for aligning it with that of actual events. Besides, the way they’re sitting makes the photo look staged.”

I disagree though and insist that their captured shadows, are something real, something far less forced, something telling of the moment that they had in fact shared together. What I ask next of my friend, is to focus on the man, situated on the floor. His physique is something blurred and un-recognizable, but I feel internally that I know the most about him, because of this. This is something I verbalize, and my friend leaves the room, mumbling incoherent.

Later I play the same song, aforementioned on the album cover, and that same chum of mine says rather dryly, “You know, maybe I was wrong”. 

Posted on December 15, 2011 at 3:15pm with 11 notes

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