program - SVIZ

PROGRAM / PROGRAM
56
Jon Frank – Afterword
I approach Maribor at great speed through the Austrian border with little
idea of what to expect. My driver, a gregarious Slovene whose name has
been lost to the day, generously pulls over at each service station we pass so
I can avail myself of the facilities and re-stock for the unknown miles ahead
with fine, cold Slovenian beer in a can. I am in a terrific mood as we drive
into Maribor Town Square.
It may be obvious to state that I tend to travel to coastal regions for my work
as a surfing photographer and cameraman. To be isolated from the sea is
not a completely new experience but I feel excited by not having a horizon
to gaze at. Slovenia does have a slither of coast in the west facing Italy, delicately
caressed by the blood-warm waters of the Adriatic Sea. This coast is
not known for its waves, so I have little interest in journeying away from my
newly acquainted mountain city.
The festival begins the following night. I begin by making pictures of musicians
playing music but they feel hollow and lifeless when compared to my
own memories of the concerts. I must attempt to find a way to photograph
the music itself, to capture the sound of the orchestra in an image, rather
than another static profile of the latest soloist. I have a theory that if I leave
the shutter of my camera open long enough the musicians will all but disappear,
evacuating their present form to become a mass of white light, a living,
radiating universe of sound and movement. I fail eventually, not in misery,
but rather mutely and without much fight or evidence, except perhaps that
I take to studying my boots while out walking the city’s narrow laneways.
One evening I am sitting alone in the Musicians Bar. Home to a pungent
musty aroma that permeates it’s candle lit chambers, this basement bomb
shelter is all wobbly tables, wooden chairs and dark corners; in other words,
perfect. Chilled red wine and room temperature beer in large bottles served
free of charge is cheese to a rat with a gold tooth. Atmospheric as it is, the
musicians come each night, stamping down the stairs, their arrival never failing
to lift the room. I suspect they feel more at home in this subterranean dive
than out in front of all, brightly lit from above, clean shaved in monkey-suits
upon the polished wooden boards. The Russian and Scandinavian players
sit drinking Vodka until the early hours telling bawdy stories in all manner of
tongues, bellowing and roaring; summoning ancestors. Finally Brigita will
decide it’s time to send them on their way, these little lost sheep, these large
coy children with glints firmly set in their eyes.
“You have Mozart tomorrow … go sleep!”
Tonight the wine is giving me a headache. I am pondering the possibility
of just one more to steady myself for the walk home, when I decide to take
a stroll along the riverbank. Beneath a wanting grey dawn I realise that to
photograph the music itself is to photograph the vessels, the conduits to
those ancient scrolls. Nothing exists without the musicians themselves, and
it is through their lives that those present can experience a truly human
revelation. The notes played on their worn, curved wooden instruments are