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Authors: Tracy Farr
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the camera.
‘Your camera is almost as old as my theremin.’
‘That was beautiful,’ she says.
‘Thank you.’
‘Was it the Shostakovich? The one you played at Transformer?’
I nod.
‘It didn’t sound quite finished. Sorry, maybe that sounds rude, or just ignorant. That wasn’t the end, was it? It sounded as if – well, I wanted more, wanted you to keep on playing.’
‘No, you’re right. There is more, but I didn’t play it. It seemed a little too – perhaps too showy for before we’ve even had coffee.’ We smile at each other.
As I turn to leave the room she places her hand on my arm, just above my wrist, stopping me. ‘Thank you for playing for me. Thank you so much.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘No, it’s not nothing. I’m sorry, but I just can’t get over how beautiful it sounds. Your playing. You draw out the most astonishing sounds. It’s what struck me the other week at Transformer. I’ve heard it played by other people – it can sound so tinny, so gimmicky. You make it sound beautiful.’ She shakes her head, slowly, drops her hand from my arm. ‘Magic. Just magic. No one plays like you.’
‘You’re very kind.’
She follows me out of the front room and into the hallway. I find myself saying to her, not looking at her as we walk, ‘I would like to help you make your film.’ It’s her finding the room’s sweet spot that has done it for me. That she should be there, just there; that she can hear that. That talks to me in a way I can trust. I know – without knowing, without reason – that this is the right decision.
THE VIEWING LENS
W e sit again in the kitchen, coffee hot on the table in front of us, weather hot outside. She has asked if she can set up an audio tape, to record our conversation. The tape spools turn in the machine, a lead snaking to a microphone on a short stand on the table between us. She pushes her hair behind her ear, and picks up the pen from next to her notebook.
‘So,’ I say, ‘how does this work? Do you have a list of questions to ask me? Will you start filming first?’
‘No, I like to start with this’ – she touches the tape recorder – ‘some audio, and the images from my still camera.’ She has placed on the table the Rolleiflex she used to capture me in the front room. The heavy black camera sits on soft black fabric, with velcro tabs that close it snugly around the camera like a swaddling cloth.
Why do you really want to film me? I want to ask her. Why do you care? But instead, I gesture towards the camera.
‘A fine machine. I had one – well, used one – you know. Long ago.’
She hands the Rolleiflex to me. I look down into theviewing lens, see her framed in the window, the stove behind her.
‘I’ll take some stills,’ she says, targeted in the crosshairs as I watch her through the lens, ‘some ideas for shots perhaps, but often more a reference for me as I go. And I’d like us to talk a little before we start filming, just find our feet I guess, get comfortable with each other. It’ll be good to record that on audio tape, those preliminary talks, like today, get some ideas for the filmed interviews. Sound okay?’
I raise my eye away from the viewfinder, and hand her back her camera. ‘It does.’
We talk, for an hour or more, about music, about the garden, about swimming, about time. It is comfortable; I do not feel as if I am being interviewed. When I close the door behind her departing back, I lean against it, kick my shoes off, walk to the bedroom and draw the curtain across the window, leaving cool darkness.
I sit on the bed, my feet flat on the the floor. Opposite me, perched on the table, is my small television, the spine of the video cassette filling the mouth of the VCR machine below it. I have only to lean forward and press my finger against the spine, against BEATRIX , to launch the tape into the machine again, to watch her contained on the little screen.
Now the filmmaker wants to film me , to
‘Your camera is almost as old as my theremin.’
‘That was beautiful,’ she says.
‘Thank you.’
‘Was it the Shostakovich? The one you played at Transformer?’
I nod.
‘It didn’t sound quite finished. Sorry, maybe that sounds rude, or just ignorant. That wasn’t the end, was it? It sounded as if – well, I wanted more, wanted you to keep on playing.’
‘No, you’re right. There is more, but I didn’t play it. It seemed a little too – perhaps too showy for before we’ve even had coffee.’ We smile at each other.
As I turn to leave the room she places her hand on my arm, just above my wrist, stopping me. ‘Thank you for playing for me. Thank you so much.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘No, it’s not nothing. I’m sorry, but I just can’t get over how beautiful it sounds. Your playing. You draw out the most astonishing sounds. It’s what struck me the other week at Transformer. I’ve heard it played by other people – it can sound so tinny, so gimmicky. You make it sound beautiful.’ She shakes her head, slowly, drops her hand from my arm. ‘Magic. Just magic. No one plays like you.’
‘You’re very kind.’
She follows me out of the front room and into the hallway. I find myself saying to her, not looking at her as we walk, ‘I would like to help you make your film.’ It’s her finding the room’s sweet spot that has done it for me. That she should be there, just there; that she can hear that. That talks to me in a way I can trust. I know – without knowing, without reason – that this is the right decision.
THE VIEWING LENS
W e sit again in the kitchen, coffee hot on the table in front of us, weather hot outside. She has asked if she can set up an audio tape, to record our conversation. The tape spools turn in the machine, a lead snaking to a microphone on a short stand on the table between us. She pushes her hair behind her ear, and picks up the pen from next to her notebook.
‘So,’ I say, ‘how does this work? Do you have a list of questions to ask me? Will you start filming first?’
‘No, I like to start with this’ – she touches the tape recorder – ‘some audio, and the images from my still camera.’ She has placed on the table the Rolleiflex she used to capture me in the front room. The heavy black camera sits on soft black fabric, with velcro tabs that close it snugly around the camera like a swaddling cloth.
Why do you really want to film me? I want to ask her. Why do you care? But instead, I gesture towards the camera.
‘A fine machine. I had one – well, used one – you know. Long ago.’
She hands the Rolleiflex to me. I look down into theviewing lens, see her framed in the window, the stove behind her.
‘I’ll take some stills,’ she says, targeted in the crosshairs as I watch her through the lens, ‘some ideas for shots perhaps, but often more a reference for me as I go. And I’d like us to talk a little before we start filming, just find our feet I guess, get comfortable with each other. It’ll be good to record that on audio tape, those preliminary talks, like today, get some ideas for the filmed interviews. Sound okay?’
I raise my eye away from the viewfinder, and hand her back her camera. ‘It does.’
We talk, for an hour or more, about music, about the garden, about swimming, about time. It is comfortable; I do not feel as if I am being interviewed. When I close the door behind her departing back, I lean against it, kick my shoes off, walk to the bedroom and draw the curtain across the window, leaving cool darkness.
I sit on the bed, my feet flat on the the floor. Opposite me, perched on the table, is my small television, the spine of the video cassette filling the mouth of the VCR machine below it. I have only to lean forward and press my finger against the spine, against BEATRIX , to launch the tape into the machine again, to watch her contained on the little screen.
Now the filmmaker wants to film me , to
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