Of Legends and High Towers: Heroes

The story behind the project

Part two: lone wolf from the shadows

" ... how everything turns away Quite leisurely from the disaster, the ploughman may Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry, But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green water, And the expensive ship that must have seen Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on."
W. H. Auden.
© Icarus (That one day you grew wings of fire and I called you Icarus and you were found.), Madrid 12 November, 2017.

I remember the adrenaline kicking in as I moved in low for a last time. Working the scene. Hunting that image I knew existed somewhere there in front of me. I had seen it unveil parts of itself and was now hunted myself by a cold fever to capture it in full. I had tasted blood.
Out for the ultimate reward I started patiently moving, turning, sneaking up and around my subjects as a predator circling its' prey.
But I must have gotten reckless at some point because I had just been made and, although they choose to pretend and ignore me, for now at least, I knew I was running out of time. Fast. It wouldn't be long now before the situation would either turn in what would possibly be a rather "uncomfortable" confrontation or the whole situation could just dissolve into thin air and be lost forever.
Earlier I had found an angle which provided me with some visibility into the galleries bordering the square and lowering the camera had brought part of the upper surface of a table in foreground of the scene. Both would provide some feel of perspective and depth in what was to become a very dark image which did not allow for much details, let alone texture. On the left of the tabletop sat a cylindrical metal box which nicely repeated in a certain understated manner the curved ceilings of the galleries which in turn proved to be a welcome counterpoint to the straight lines already present.
It felt as if a symphony was being written.

© Of little men, Madrid 22 Octobre, 2017.

My perseverance had pushed the two men back into the shadows where one of them had offered a smoke to the other. For a moment I thought the moment had ceased to exist to never return. The shorter one of the two had taken position shrouded by a concrete pillar while his partner stood tall in the shadows, where he nevertheless went almost entirely concealed by his dark outfit.
Aware of my presence they had instinctively changed their postures. Where a moment ago they were just going about their day, they now had been thrown of guard by the realization they had an audience. A defensive stand was the result. Shoulders raised, upper back slightly in a forward curve, their walk became more firm and intentional, conscious. As to make a statement. As if marking territory while checking my every move out of the corner of their eyes. All the while making sure not to turn entirely in my direction.
Not just yet.
The hunter was to become the hunted.

© The race, Madrid 18 February, 2018.

Something had drawn their attention on the square. Eyes and heads raised.
The shadows revealed a face first. Down at the lower end of the pillar as a body had leaned forward into the light in an attempt to fetch a glimpse of whatever had occurred behind me. It just hung there in the surrounding dark. By itself and only interrupted by the occasional need for a fix as it pulled from a cigarette held by an as much dismembered arm.
A cigarette lit up in the dark behind and floated forwards. It was happening. Right there and then. The universe favouring my patience. A simple step brought the main character in play. A display of great magnitude. Eyes on infinity, left hand halfway tucked in a pocket of his jacket, cigarette loosely in the other, low, hanging alongside his body, straight back.
"Les fidèles" was born.
Fidèle. Loyal. A pledge to stay ever true and loyal to the street.

Sincerely yours,
Flamenco Sketches.

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